


immediate and inglorious

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Case Fic, Crime fic, Dark Character, Dark John Watson, Dark Johnlock, Dark Sherlock, Death of minor or bit canon characters, Dominance, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Gaslighting, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic descriptions of violence, Intimidation, John Watson is a Serial Killer, John has sex with people FYI, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinda, M/M, Murder, No rape tho, Original Characters - Freeform, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John Watson, Self-Harm, Serial Killer John, Serial Killer John Watson, Serial Killing, Sexual killer John, Sherlock is a dick but also baby, Sherlock is sometimes very dumb in this, Sherlock's emotional IQ is not great, Sherlock-centric, Smut, Strangulation, This fic will have two endings, Various canon characters - Freeform, Violent Sex, With a fucked up twist, but it's not very nice, one is an alternate and will have MCD (major character death) in it, people gonna die, some dubcon, that will be the alternate ending, that's what people do, the non MCD ending will be the primary ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 72,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Bodies are showing up in back alleys, with no sign of a struggle, no trace of drugs. If not for the strangulation bruises on their necks and the scythe carved into their left shoulders, they could have died peacefully, in their sleep.With New Scotland Yard dumbfounded by the Grim Reaper Killer case, Sherlock is called in to consult. The more he investigates, the deeper Sherlock finds himself drawn into the work of London's newest serial killer. As his views of good and bad begin to blur, he risks losing himself to a darkness he never imagined.And, even more pressing: where does John Watson, grieving ex-boyfriend of the Grim Reaper's latest victim, fit into all of this?---------
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 597
Kudos: 314





	1. Strangers on Your Breath

**Author's Note:**

> **I'm only going to say this once because some of the reactions to this fic have been exhausting and really disheartening.**
> 
> I am always open to comments and critiques. If there's something I can do to make my writing better, or if tags need to be added, please lemme know. That being said, if your comment is simply to tell me that John is not 'dark enough' in this fic, or that Sherlock is much darker/meaner/sexier/etc etc etc, then maybe this fic isn't meant for you. I can only write what I think up, and it's incredibly exhausting to hear over and over that this my Dark John is not as dark as people would like, or doesn't match their headcanon. 
> 
> So, please, if you find yourself commenting these things, I promise you I've heard it. I don't mean to be rude, but maybe this isn't the fic you're looking for in that case.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope readers will enjoy this story as we explore it together. As with all my long stories so far, I write on the fly, so it's as much a mystery to me as it is to you (a few pre-planned plot points and scenes aside).
> 
> \-------
> 
> Title inspired by Lord Byron's poem: [Darkness](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43825/darkness-56d222aeeee1b)
> 
> Chapter titles from various songs, which will be referenced in the chapter notes.
> 
> Cover by me, photos and characters are not mine.

**November 21**

* * *

The body was fresh. Going by the rigor mortis-stiffened limbs, she had been dead eight hours. Eight hours before someone found her in a dark, cold alley, positioned against a brick wall, chin resting on her chest. Thickened blood oozed from a cut in the shape of a scythe on her left shoulder, staining her shirt a muddy brown.

“These cuts were made after death.” Sherlock indicated the wound, Lestrade leaning over his shoulder with a tense expression.

“How can you tell?” he asked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“The blood _oozed_ out, instead of running down," he explained, casting Lestrade a hard look. "That means the heart was already stopped when the cuts were made.” His lips quirked. “Dead bodies don’t bleed, Detective-Inspector. I assume even _you_ know that.” Sherlock’s voice took on a sardonic edge, and Lestrade winced, his mouth tightening.

“Thanks for that.” Sighing, the DI pressed frustrated fingers through his hair and hunkered down beside the body. “What do you think he used to make the cuts?”

Sherlock bent forward, pushing a gloved finger across the lines of the wound. Neat, sharp, precise. No tearing at the edges. “Scalpel,” he replied, tracing the shape of the cuts. “Too neat to be anything else.” Reaching out, he brushed the woman’s long hair back. Thick, dark bruises roped across her neck, the imprint of hands on greying skin. “Strangulation.” His fingertips drifted over the marks.

Beside him, Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, that matches the M.O. of the others.” He sighed, “Which makes her the eighth Grim Reaper victim.”

Rocking back on his heels, Sherlock squatted in front of the body, his eyes fixed on her slack face. Aside from the strangulation marks, she looked peaceful. Almost like she might be asleep, save for the loose, grey skin of her face and the noticeable stillness of her chest. His head tilted, Sherlock frowned. “The others...where were they found?”

Lestrade stood, brushing the dirt off his knees. “All in alleys or side streets. Never the same place twice. Always sitting like this.” His face tightened. “Looking like they all decided to just sit down and take a nap.” The DI pushed the palms of his hands against his eyes. He looked like he needed a nap himself.

“All women?” Reaching out, Sherlock plucked a hair off the woman’s pant leg. He turned it until pale sunlight caught along the edge. Cat hair. Frustrated, he flicked it away.

“No.” Lestrade dropped his hands. “Five women and three men. Varying ages, but no kids and no seniors. The age range is…” he reached into a pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “Age range is 23-41.” He shrugged, pushing the journal back into his jacket. “Sherlock, I hope you’ve got something for us because we don’t have a clue.” Lestrade spread his hands helplessly. “He’s speeding up. Two in the last week. Used to be one every two weeks, and before that, once a month. If we can't figure this out, I don’t know what kind of escalation we’re looking at here, but I assume it won’t be good.”

Nodding, Sherlock pushed up onto his feet. Eyes narrowed, face thoughtful, he pulled his long coat tight around his body. A cold breeze blew through his dark curls, a bite of frost darkening his cheeks. "What is her name?” he asked, watching the wind ruffle the dead woman’s light brown hair.

Lestrade sighed again, looking at the body with rueful eyes. “Sarah Sawyer,” he said. “32, single. She works— _worked_ at a clinic as a doctor. We interviewed some of her coworkers and family members. She seems like the normal sort, nothing out of the ordinary. No suspicious ties, no big recent changes in her life. She was…well, she was normal. Average.” His mouth twisted to the side, Lestrade shrugged. “Like all of them.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed. His fingers drummed against his leg. “Any new relationships?” Lestrade cast him a sideways look.

“You thinking jealous ex?” Sherlock raised a shoulder, non-committal. Lestrade’s face shifted, realization dawning in his eyes. “You don't have any ideas, do you?”

The look Sherlock shot his way was all flashing eyes and tight lips. “No,” he muttered, his voice harsh with frustration. “No, I don’t.” His eyes darted to Sarah’s slack face, then to the sky. Her skin and the clouds were almost the same dull grey. “Not yet.”

Lestrade was silent for a long moment. Retrieving the notebook again, he flipped through it. “She was seeing someone for a few months, according to some coworkers and her brother. Wasn’t too serious. They’d all met him, seemed like a normal enough bloke. That was about nine months ago. They broke up, all very amicable.”

“Have you spoken to him yet?” Sherlock asked, tugging at his sleeve with long fingers. Lestrade shook his head.

“Not yet. We only have the first name, still working on a last.”

“And that would be?”

Lestrade flipped through his notebook again. “John,” he said finally. “He was a part-time locum doctor with the clinic for a while. He left a bit before the breakup, probably why they drifted apart. We're waiting for the clinic to dig up the H.R. file so we can get the contact details."

Sherlock’s head jerked up, his eyes flashing. “What happened to the file?” he demanded. It could be a lead. A sign of foul play. A—

Lestrade shook his head. “Sorry, nothing as exciting as what you’re thinking. I guess their computer system is ancient, and it went down a few weeks ago. Happens a lot. They have to go through old backups to find the right one. I have Donovan working on it with a couple of low levels.”

Sherlock ground his teeth together, annoyance ticking through his tense jaw. “Fine,” he snapped. Looking around, he frowned down at the woman. “I want to see her flat.” His head lifted, eyes locking with Lestrade’s again. “I assume that is where the murder occurred? It's late November, and she’s hardly dressed for the cold weather. I’m guessing she wasn’t 'out on the town’ when it happened.”

Lestrade nodded. "We can take the cruiser."

-*-*-*-

Sarah Sawyer’s flat was small and orderly. Aside from the police tape across the door, it was hard to tell anything had happened. Most people would miss the scuff mark on the hardwood by the coffee table, the ruffled couch blanket. But Sherlock wasn’t most people.

Bending down by the coffee table, he brushed the tips of his fingers over the scuff mark. Considering the indentation's angle and shape, someone—likely Sarah—had worn a pair of heels in the flat. Had tripped and stepped too hard, scraping the shoe against the wood. Wandering into the bedroom, Sherlock opened a closet door, bending to pick up a pale blue stiletto. There was a nick in the heel. He dropped the shoe back to the floor with a sigh.

All right. So the scuff didn’t matter.

Moving back through the flat to the living room, Sherlock lifted the rumpled blanket. He brought it to his face and inhaled deeply. Nothing of note, just the faint, faded scent of the bodies it had covered. A light, feminine perfume. A hint of musk that could belong to a man.

Pushing the fabric over his fingers, he squinted. Face inches away from the material, he stared at a stain, a small spot of red. He inhaled again.

Merlot? Maybe a cabernet. No—darker hints, a thicker, more acidic aroma. _Zinfandel._ Dropping the blanket onto the sofa, he squinted into the kitchen. Two wine glasses rested in the dish rack.

Sherlock passed into the small kitchen, making a sharp beeline for the sink. Picking up one of the glasses, he cradled the thin stem between his fingers, squinting as he wiped a fingertip over the inside curve.

“Lestrade,” he called. The DI emerged from the living room, tilting his head when he saw Sherlock holding the glass. Turning to him, Sherlock pointed at the drying rack. “She had company.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, I wondered about that. I assumed they left because she took the time to clean the glasses. The killer must have come after.”

Sherlock pushed a finger along the thin edge of the glass. “I think the killer washed these.”

Eyes widening, a look of disbelief passed over Lestrade's face. “What makes you say that?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for a moment, watching light refract against the clear surface. “Lestrade, you need to run a tox screen. He must be drugging them with something, that’s why they always look so peaceful. He strangles them in their sleep.” Setting the wine glass on the counter, he turned to the DI with a smug expression. At Lestrade’s head shake, the smirk faded from his lips. “No?”

“Well, none of the others were drugged,” the DI replied. “We checked. It was one of our first theories. I mean, strangling someone while they’re awake and not having them fight back? No drugs? They’d have to be pretty out of it or a hell of a sleeper not to wake up otherwise.” Lestrade shrugged. “No drugs and only one took sleeping pills regularly. One—the first, I think—was a confirmed insomniac. Would stay up for days on end, according to close friends and a family. Mental health issues.” He shook his head again. “Honestly, Sherlock, this guy is… he’s good. I hate to say it, but these killings are next level.” Lestrade's face twisted, his lips pulling down at the corners in a grimace. “If he didn’t leave the bodies for us to find, carved up with that little Grim Reaper signature of his, we'd never have even known about him.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked upward in a crooked smile. “Neat,” he mused, ignoring Lestrade’s disgusted look. “What?" he replied defensively. "You have to admit that he’s clever.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” Lestrade grumbled. “We done here?”

“Yup.” Flipping the collar of his jacket up, Sherlock tugged his scarf into place. “Send me the files on the other victims. I’ll text you when I have some leads.”

**November 23**

* * *

Sherlock’s palm smacked against the tabletop as he slammed a file folder shut. He had read everything on the seven victims before Sarah Sawyer and was no closer to a lead. It was all too random, too meticulous. Nothing seemed to tie the victims together.

The first kill was a young man named Henry Knight. An eccentric insomniac, but a nice man by all accounts. Young, in his 20s, with a large amount of money. No living parents. He had turned up dead in an alley, strangled with some kind of ligature, likely a belt. He had the scythe carved into his shoulder, again post-mortem. His body was found reclined against an alley wall with a relaxed, calm expression on his unmarked face.

Then came Ella Thompson, a professional psychiatrist in her late-30s. Also leaning against a wall. Another ligature strangulation. She was a month after Henry Knight.

Janine Hawkins, one month later. Female, mid-30s. Personal assistant for some newspaper mogul. That time, the killer used his hands. Hawkins’ death had been the start of a habit.

The next victim was two weeks later. Fletcher Robinson. Male, mid-20s. A tour guide from Baskerville, in London on a visit to see family. Strangled.

Soo Lin Yao, in her mid-20s. Two weeks after Fletcher. Originally from China, and a curator at the museum. A lotus tattoo on her foot, but nothing related to the Grim Reaper cases. Strangled.

Jonathan Small. Mid-30s. An amateur photographer with student debt. Non-descript, dull. Strangled. Two weeks ago.

Beth Davenport. Early-40s, the higher end of the Grim Reaper’s age range. A woman who liked to drink and worked as a receptionist. Strangled. Found on Monday.

And now, Sarah Sawyer. Single woman, a doctor, in her early-30s. Found today, four days after Davenport.

No clues. The victims varied in age and across gender, ethnic, socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds. Nothing at the scenes or on the bodies to arouse suspicion. Each time, the same.

Sherlock slammed his hand on the tabletop again, pushing file folders across the cluttered surface.

He didn’t like not knowing.

His phone buzzed, scooting across the table where he’d shoved it. Reaching out, he snagged the device and answered the call with a swipe of his thumb. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s Lestrade. We tracked down the ex-boyfriend. His full name is John H. Watson. Not sure of the middle name, but it doesn't seem important. No record, pretty average guy.” There was a pause, and Sherlock heard Lestrade tapping at a keyboard. “Anyways, I gave him a call. He was shocked to hear about Sarah and agreed to have a chat with us. I said we could do it here, at the station, or go to him, whatever is easiest. He seemed fine either way.

“His house,” Sherlock said immediately. “I want to see him in his own house. His guard will be up if we do it at the station.”

Lestrade was silent for a moment. “You think it might be him?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked. “Balance of probability, Lestrade. It’s almost always the ex.”

**November 24**

* * *

John Watson’s flat was tucked beneath a set of stairs in a block of houses, the door a vibrant shade of dark blue. When John answered their knock, his eyes were almost the same colour, vivid and sharp.

“Doctor Watson?” Lestrade asked, holding out a hand. “I’m Detective-Inspector Lestrade. We spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes, hello, Detective-Inspector," John replied, wiping his palms on his jeans. "I recognized your voice. Please, call me John.” He shook Lestrade’s hand, tilting his head to look up at Sherlock. “And you are…?”

Pulling off a black glove, Sherlock extended his hand. “Sherlock Holmes. I’m an outside consultant on the Sarah Sawyer case.” A shadow passed over John’s face, and his eyes shone.

“Yes, of course. Right. Poor Sarah.” His grip was firm and trembling slightly as John blinked his eyes clear. He released Sherlock’s hand and wiped a palm across his cheek. “Sorry, it’s just…I still can’t believe it.” He shook his head, a tentative smile stretching across his face. “Please, come in.” Standing aside, he waved them into the flat.

Stepping past the threshold, Sherlock’s eyes darted over the interior. The door opened into a tiny entryway, lined with a shoe tray— _three sets of shoes, all the same size, men’s shoes_ —and a coat rack— _two scarves, four jackets, green, blue, grey, and one black with leather patches on the shoulders and elbows_. A long, red-and-white runner stretched from the door to the edge of an open-concept sitting room. Toeing off his shoes, Sherlock stepped further into the flat.

The furniture was sparse and utilitarian. It consisted of a plain couch, two chairs, a small coffee table, and another smaller, round table between the two chairs, and a modest-sized flatscreen sat atop a plain wooden stand. A circular rug covered the floor in front of the couch, matched with the curtains in a lighter shade of blue than the vividly painted front door. Light flooded the room from a large bay window at the far end, reflecting off an empty tumbler glass on the coffee table. A box of tissues sat next to it, with two wadded beside.

Turning his head, Sherlock looked into the kitchen. It was orderly in the simple way of someone with few belongings. Toaster oven, kettle, breadbox. A plate with half-eaten toast and jam on the counter next to the fridge. There were a few crumbs on the stovetop, but it otherwise tidy.

John grabbed the balled-up tissues off the coffee table, tossing them into a waste bin in the corner. He looked sheepishly apologetic. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I usually keep a tidier place. Just... when I heard the news…” he shook his head, eyes watering again. “I’m still kind of shocked.”

“Of course.” Lestrade's voice was gentle. “Anyone would be.”

John nodded, sinking down on the sofa. He stared at the empty glass on the coffee table, his eyes wide and unfocused. Abruptly, he shook his head and dropped his face into his hands. “I just can’t believe it,” he groaned, his broad shoulders shaking.

Sherlock hovered by the kitchen, studying the distraught man. He was shorter than Sherlock, somewhere between five-five and five-seven. His tawny, sand-brown hair was thick and silvered with grey, swept to the right side of his head from an almost severe part on the left. Sherlock put his age somewhere around late-30s, early-40s. Despite his hunched posture, his shoulders and upper arms were muscled, well-toned from what Sherlock could see under John's shirt. When John had walked to the sofa, he had moved with precise, long strides, his arms stiff at his sides.

In Sherlock's experience, such a gait was specific to very few careers.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, breaking into the silence. Lestrade’s head whipped around, and John looked up from his hands. His face was flushed, pale eyelashes clumped and wet with tears.

“Sorry?” John frowned, blinking quickly.

“You’re ex-military, yes?” Sherlock moved further into the sitting room. “Given your age, I'd say either the Herrick Operation you probably haveTelic Operation in Iraq.”

John tilted his head, wiping a hand over his face. “It was…Afghanistan. Sorry, I don’t—”

“How did I know?” Sherlock was unable to keep the smug tone from his voice. “You walk like a military man. And there’s a pull at your left side, which I assume is from the injury that led to you being invalided back to London." Gesturing to John's body, he quirked an eyebrow. "Given the way you move, it's an old wound, probably sore from the recent rain and cold. You worked in a clinic, but only part-time, so you probably have a pension of some kind.” Sherlock shrugged. “A man in his late-30s, early-40s, with a pension? Fairly uncommon. Add the wound, your habit of walking stiff-backed and turning on your feet like a soldier, and it’s quite simple.” Folding his hands in front of him, he rocked back on his heels, his mouth clicking shut.

Well-versed in Sherlock showing off, Lestrade rolled his eyes. But John stared. He appeared shocked, his dark eyes widening. Sherlock sighed, waiting for the usual defensive anger that usually followed his untimely deductions. This one had been rather personal, and he wouldn't be surprised if John told him to sod off. 

John’s lips lifted into a small, tenuous grin, and Sherlock was stunned.

“That’s… _extraordinary_ ,” John exclaimed, a note of awe in his voice. “How did—you got all that from the way I _walk_?”

Sherlock raised his shoulders again. “I simply observed,” he replied flatly. Something heavy spread through his chest, and he had to swallow down his surprise.

“Well, it’s brilliant.” The smile John turned toward Sherlock shone in his liquid blue eyes. Slowly, the smile faded, and John dropped his gaze to the floor. “Maybe you’ll be able to find out who killed Sarah…” he pulled a tissue from the box on the table and pressed it to his face.

Lestrade dropped down onto the sofa beside John. “Yes, John," he said, touching a comforting hand to his hunched shoulder. "We’re hoping you could tell us about Sarah. About how you know her, what she was like. Anything could help catch whoever did this.”

Folding the tissue with shaking fingers, John nodded. His eyes stared past and through the table, bright and wet. “Of course,” he said softly. “I want to help if I can.”

John’s story was simple, one Sherlock had heard hundreds of times before. Man and woman meet, man likes woman, woman likes man. They date, they fuck, they eat food in fancy, poorly-lit restaurants. It’s exciting at first, then it’s not. They separate, stay friends, move on with their lives.

Pedestrian. Mundane.

Boring.

“I liked her, you know?” John was saying, and Sherlock pulled his attention back to the conversation. “Even after I left the clinic and things fizzled out, we tried to keep in touch.” His mouth lifted in a sad attempt at a smile, his expression rueful. “You know how it goes, best intentions and all that. You say you’ll stay friends, then you drift apart. The texts slow down, the calls stop. Life just…well, it happens. You become different people, you’re busy, there’s so much going on.” He lifted his hands, spreading his fingers as he shrugged. “It happens.”

“When was the last time you saw Sarah?” Lestrade asked, scribbling notes in his book. John leaned into the sofa, looking thoughtful.

“I think...two months ago? I ran into her at a mutual friend’s birthday party. She’d had a bit of wine and…” He smiled, his gaze far-off and fond. “Sarah was beautiful, in a plain sort of way. Like…like she was never flashy about it, never one for a lot of makeup and over-the-top outfits. But she was so calm and kind, and her smile just lit up the room.” John shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s really gone.”

Sherlock sighed, annoyance bleeding into the noise. “Yes, yes, Doctor Watson,” he muttered, moving his hand in a little ‘hurry up’ motion. Lestrade glared daggers in his direction, which he ignored. Leaning forward, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “What happened that night, when you saw her?”

John stared up at him. His face twitched, uncertainty flickering through his eyes. “Nothing happened, Mr. Holmes. We caught up a bit, then Sarah left because her cab arrived.” He looked away, an unheeded tear painting a salty trail over his cheek. “I talked to her a few weeks later, over text. The usual. ‘So nice to see you,' and all that. ‘We should get together soon,' etcetera.” Picking up his phone, John held it out. “You can look if you like. I’m rubbish at deleting my messages, I’m sure it’s still there.”

“That won’t be necessary, Doctor Watson. But thank you.” Lestrade stood and offered his hand. Rising to his feet, John shook it.

“Of course, Detective-Inspector," he said quietly, his smile uneasy. "And please, it’s John.” He looked apologetically between Sherlock and Lestrade. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel I was very helpful.”

“That’s okay, John,” Lestrade began as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You helped us get a better picture of who Sarah was. And, again, I am very sorry for your loss.”

John swiped a hand across his eyes and nodded. “Thank you.”

Lestrade turned to the door, but Sherlock hesitated. Staring at John, he paused in the entryway. “Why did you leave your job at the clinic, Doctor Watson?” he asked. Lestrade stopped and turned, brows rising. John blinked.

“Oh. It was nothing bad if that's what you're thinking," he said, hugging himself. “I left because I had an offer for work at Bart’s Hospital, teaching trauma triage to med students.” He tilted his head, a timid smile on his lips. “I graduated from Bart's before I enlisted. An old friend offered me a position.” John rubbed at his arms, looking pensive. “I’m between semesters right now, but that’s more or less where I’ve been since leaving the clinic.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling frustrated. His teeth ground together. “All right. Well, thank you, Doctor Watson.” He offered his hand, and John took it with the same firm grip as before.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes.” He abruptly stepped forward, moving into Sherlock’s personal space. “But, _please,_ call me John.” His eyes darkened, a fleeting change that made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat. John was warm, sharp waves of heat radiating from his body. It was oddly intoxicating, and Sherlock's head threatened to spin as John added, “I hope to hear from you soon." He pressed the tips of his fingers into Sherlock’s palm before stepping away.

“Right,” Sherlock said slowly, the word drawling out through his fogged brain. “Well. Um. Thank you again, Doctor Wats— _John_.”

John smiled, a tenuous, hopeful expression on his damp face. Sherlock spun around and followed Lestrade, pausing only to slip on his shoes.

As they stepped out into the cold air, Lestrade burst out in muffled laughter. “I think you’ve got an admirer, mate!” he cackled, smacking his hand against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stumbled, his mouth pulling down in a grimace.

“Shut up, Gavin,” he snarled. “Doesn’t that seem suspicious? I mean, his girlfriend was _just_ murdered, and he’s already making moves on someone else?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Okay, first off, I _know_ you know my name is Greg. And, second, Sarah is his _ex-girlfriend_ , they broke up nine months ago.” He grinned, shaking his head. “The man is looking for some sympathy, and we’re the first people to sit and listen to him after hearing the terrible news. Then you go and impress him—god knows why or how—by showing off. Of course he’s going to latch onto you.” Lestrade shrugged. “He’s vulnerable and looking for comfort. If he wants to find that in a pity-fuck, well, who are we to judge?” He looked at Sherlock with a sly expression on his face. “What, he isn’t your type? I thought you liked military guys.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I refuse to discuss my sexual preferences or kinks with you, Gabor.”

“It’s _Greg,”_ Lestrade sighed. “And he’s an ex-military doctor who teaches triage at Bart’s. How boring could he possibly be?”


	2. Falling For This High

The door closed, and the shaky, hopeful smile dropped off John’s face. Eyes hardening, expression empty and shark-like, he dropped across the couch. Head cushioned on one arm, leg hanging off the edge, he stretched out and stared at the ceiling.

_New Scotland Yard brought in a consultant. Interesting._

Curiousity rippled beneath his indifferent composure. Pulling out his phone, John opened the web browser and typed _Sherlock Holmes_ into the search bar. He clicked a link for a website: _The Science of Deduction._

John snorted, reading from the main screen. Words and sentences jumped out at him, bold and harsh.

 _The world’s only consulting detective._

_I observe everything._

_I’m not going into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn’t understand._

_Interesting cases only, please._

He sounded like a pretentious arsehole. Having met him, the assumption stood true. The man was too caught up in his own perception of internal brilliance to recognize it in others. Sherlock Holmes claimed to observe everything, yet failed to see the pathetic, blubbering man John presented to him was an act. 

Despite Sherlock's recognition of John’s military past, the man was a fool. A fool who fell hook-line-and-sinker for the laughable ruse John created of a whingeing ex-boyfriend. A façade of a man torn apart by the death of a woman he’d dated for less than two months, nine months ago. Half-eaten toast in the kitchen as evidence of lost appetite. A downed-glass of hard liquor to ‘steady the nerves’. Used tissues, crumpled up on the table from shed tears. In reality, the tissues held the mess of the adrenaline-induced wank John indulged in after a kill.

And the tears. The pinnacle performance—the icing on the cake. A man made ragged with grief. False. Faked with ease and without remorse. Many emotions were beneath him, but that did not mean John couldn’t recreate them when needed. Empathy training and years of ‘bedside manner’ armed him with the skills needed to deceive.

Standing, John walked to the bathroom. Now that he was alone, no longer under examination, gone was the walk of the every-man. In its place came calculated, smooth steps; the predatory movement of the hunter. Sherlock was right—John walked like a soldier. Now he moved like a killer. Silent and cold. A shark through still waters. 

Fingers curled around the edge of the bathroom sink, John stared into his reflection. Salt-tracks marked his skin, snaking over pale cheeks to the edge of his jaw. Wetting a towel with hot water, steam fogging the mirror, he scrubbed hard at his face. Skin red, pores gasping, he tossed the cloth into the sink and looked at the echo of his face, glowering back at him.

Turning on his heel, John moved through the sitting room, swiping the empty glass from the table as he passed. In the kitchen, he tossed the half-eaten toast into the trash. Brushed crumbs from the counters and the stovetop. Washing the dish, he set it in the drying rack. Pulling a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, he poured two fingers into the glass.

The kitchen once more immaculate, he returned to the living room. Dropping into a chair in front of the window, he sipped the strong liquor. Fire flooding down his throat and into his stomach, John traced the tip of a finger along the edge of the glass. 

Idly, he reflected on the gratitude he’d felt when Lestrade chose to call prior to their ‘chat’. The occurrence confirmed two things. That Lestrade did not consider John a prime suspect, while Sherlock did. Sherlock interviewed John in his own home to see how he performed in a familiar environment. In a place of safety and comfort. Police interrogation rooms almost always put suspects on the defensive. A man's home did not.

On his own, John suspected DI Lestrade would have followed a by-the-book session. A traditional interrogation in a cold, too-bright, windowless room. Someone self-dubbed the ‘world’s only consulting detective’ would want to break the mould. Through his meddling, Sherlock had inadvertently placed John in a position of power. The man was obtuse, but John gave him credit for trying. As it stood, he felt confident Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in the case would not be a problem.

Smiling, John sipped the whiskey. The amber liquid coated his tongue with fire and spice.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

**November 25**

The next day, an image of police cars and yellow crime scene tape emblazoned the front page of the morning paper. The headline announced chaos with sharp, black lettering over the photo. Mug of coffee clutched in one hand, John shook the paper open with the other. Blowing at the steam, he read the article, vivid eyes moving over the newsprint.

**_Grim Reaper Killer Strikes Again!_ **

_Last night, the body of Sarah Sawyer, a 32-year-old doctor, was discovered in an alley. Police believe Sawyer's death is the work of a new serial killer, the prolific ‘Grim Reaper’. Following seven other murders, Sawyer is the most recent victim of the serial killings that first began in July. The police are advising that people stay together if they must be out at night. If anyone has information on this case, contact DI Lestrade at the number below._

Beside the article was a photo of Sarah. John recognized the picture—it was the same one the clinic had used for her ID tag. Grinning, John stroked the tips of his fingers over her face.

It was nice to have his hard work recognized.

Flipping through the paper, he read through various articles, mind drifting.

The part-time clinic work had been an impulsive decision. Low on money, craving consistency, he settled on something that provided an alibi. Dating Sarah had not been part of the plan. But she was persistent, flirting with him whenever they interacted. John played the role of the average Joe. A sweet, befuddled man, romantically-inclined; a little soft in the head but good at his job. Sarah fit into that façade with seamless ease. The ideal girlfriend: cheerful and bold. Kind and nondescript. 

John took her up on the offer for drinks. Stepped into the role of an ordinary bloke. One who enjoyed a beer with his mates and vanilla sex in the missionary position. Now, that man became the snivelling ex-boyfriend anguished by loss. Even if the relationship ended nine months prior, and John was no more ordinary than a lion among the lambs. Slipping into that persona again was easy, even if it reminded him of the tedium of those two months. 

The relationship with Sarah had been debilitating. Insipid and lack-lustre. Nights spent on the sofa, watching reality television and going to bed at 10:30. Drinking red wine and listening to her laugh at scripted scenes of contrived drama. So fake, so disgustingly falsified.

If only she had known: the biggest pretender of all had been sitting right beside her.

By then, John had already killed six people. More, if he counted the men he ripped apart with bullets in the military. But those six had been different. Dead with intention rather than honour, none of them found or displayed. Stuffed into dark spaces to rot and fade away. The tiresome ritual of maintaining a false, simple life drove him further. Pushed him over the edge, toward a new game. A stronger high. It was no longer about the chase and the kill. It came down to _recognition_. Generating and building fear—creating the perfect murder in plain sight. The planning was immense. His debut needed to be perfect. 

The project took more and more of his time until Sarah became a nuisance. Already so useless; so clingy and _ordinary_. John began looking for an out. When Mike Stamford called with the teaching job at Bart’s, John pounced. 

Ending things with Sarah had been simple. He fed her the ‘we’re two different people’ line; cited the feeling of ‘drifting apart’ as a reason to separate. She cried on his shoulder. John fought the urge to rip the life from her lungs with every tear that soaked into the fabric of his shirt.

They broke up in March. He killed Henry Knight mid-July. Picked him up at a bar: targeted, acquired, destroyed. After months of preparation, he was ready. He lulled the young, impressionable man into a stupor with hands and mouth. Wrapped a belt around his neck and pulled until the light dimmed in his eyes and Henry slipped to his knees. Not right away, but slowly, the other man looking at him with trust in his eyes. Sweat and skin on skin in the dark. Autoerotic asphyxiation with a more permanent ending.

Months of planning. The delicious ramp up and the ache of expectation. Every step meticulous and pre-mediated. The payoff was immeasurable.

The bullet that almost took John’s life left its indelible mark on his continuing survival. The brush of death, the adrenaline of coming out the other side. An honourable discharge from the army and a one-way plane ticket to London. Free to wander and waste away. To lose himself among the other empty souls caught in smog-darkened streets.

Saving lives stopped exciting him after the taste of near-death. John sought that muscle memory with hunger in his chest. Chased a feeling of kinship.

He found it in the bodies of his victims.

Henry was his first display. He carved the scythe with adrenaline-soaked hands as a tribute to the fabled Grim Reaper. To the bullet that ripped through his own left shoulder, leaving him to bleed out on hot sands. Boredom drove him beyond anonymity. Made him sick with the need to invite others to a voyeuristic exhibition of his work. 

The first time he wrapped his fingers around someone’s neck, something changed. Darkened. Twisted. Feeling life pulse and fade out beneath his hands brought new clarity.

In this way, he had control. Control was something taken from him, leaving him desperate to regain it. He reduced his victims to playthings beneath slow, gentle hands. Stole away their lives with a perfect lust his victims mistook for desire. Janine Hawkins met her maker that way. Arched beneath him as John pressed his thumb into her carotid artery. Gradual blood and oxygen deprivation slowed her brain and stilled her lungs. Through stages and agonizing starts and stops, he left her smiling and pale. John had no need for drugs or substances; for threats or a gun. He was a doctor. He knew where to press and push. Knew how to end life as easily as he knew how to save it.

Eyes refocusing, John looked down at the paper. Turning back to the front page, he studied Sarah's picture.

John's skin had crawled when they ran into one another at a mutual friend's party. John attended to keep up appearances—Sarah attended hoping to run into him. He knew this by the way she sought him out in the crowd. Sarah had fallen over him with desperation, tipsy from wine and unrequited what-ifs. 

She told him she missed him. Said the clinic wasn’t the same without him. Asked him if he would like to get coffee sometime to ‘catch up’. Confessed that he was the ‘best sex she’d ever had’. Stared at his mouth, hand drifting along his thigh in the crowded pub.

John would have taken her home. Would have choked the life from her writhing body when she came beneath him, if not for the arrival of her cab. That was September 13th. A few days later, he picked Janine Hawkins out of a coffee shop and killed her with bare hands around her neck. She wasn’t Sarah, but Sarah would happen later, he knew. He planned. Decided. 

Now, dropping the newspaper onto the table, John turned his thoughts forward. To Sherlock Holmes.

His careless, obvious flirting with the consulting detective had been heavy-handed and intentional. The man was so high and mighty, John couldn’t resist playing with him. Just a bit. The man came across as socially uncomfortable. John confirmed the theory by stepping into him, brushing fingertips over his palm. Lowered his voice and insisted he call him John. Looked up from beneath his eyelashes, demure and hopeful, and whispered how he hoped to hear from him soon. The dilation of Sherlock’s pupils and the flush that crept up his neck told him all he needed to know. 

Flexing his fingers, John wondered how it would feel to wrap his hands around Sherlock Holmes’ long, pale throat. The man had three distinct moles along the left side of his neck. John imagined settling his fingers over those marks and pressing until the muscles cramped and shifted.

Would he beg? Would Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, beg for his life? Would he plead and cry and pull at John’s arms? Or would he give in, perfect acceptance as John ripped the life and air from his lungs with painstaking care?

John’s groin tightened. The imagery flashing through his head built into a heavy ball of lust deep in his stomach. His tongue flicked out, tracing over his bottom lip. Picturing the mark of his fingers against Sherlock’s pale skin almost made him feel giddy. With a sudden, desperate ache, he decided that he wanted— _needed_ —the image to shift into reality. Needed Sherlock Holmes under his hands. Beneath his body. Needed to press until the air slipped out from that long, smooth throat. 

In all honesty, Sherlock impressed him, despite his own ignorance of John’s ruse. His mind was sharp; tantalizingly similar to John’s. His sudden need to make Sherlock one of his victims, to display him with peace in his face and the mark of death on his shoulder, was borne from an echo he saw in the other man.

If he could have him in any other way, John would. Because here was someone who might not be commonplace. Someone who, in another timeline, might recognize and embrace the darkness in John’s soul. But the detective, likely a highly-motivated justice type, would inevitably _become_ commonplace. Everyone did, in the end. John rarely kept anyone longer than it took to bed and choke the life from them with careful fingers. Sherlock would be the same. It was inevitable. Predictable. The sum of endless patterns.

There was danger to consider. Deceiving Sherlock only to be caught in a trap would be catastrophic. John would have to be clever, and careful. Sherlock wasn’t like his usual targets. He was smarter, by leaps and bounds. He noticed too much and asked too many questions. He knew the criminal mind, and it would be no small feat to deceive him. If John showed himself for even a moment, hinted at what he _actually_ was, the game would be over.

He needed to play the idiot. The broken-hearted ex-boyfriend, aching for justice. The snivelling whelp desperate for comfort. His jaw tensed at the thought of playing down his own intelligence in the face of a man like Sherlock Holmes. And, yet, that would be the detective’s downfall. If John played his cards right, the payoff could be enormous. The great Sherlock Holmes brought to Earth by the hands of a man he believed to be beneath him. As much as it pained John to play the idiot, the unveiling would be luscious. Perfect. He would talk the talk and walk the walk if it meant watching the light leave Sherlock’s eyes. If he could paint realization and shock across that sharp face.

Drifting fingers over his lips, John smiled. Retrieving his phone, he dialled the number from the paper. Listening as the call connected, he pressed his finger against Sarah’s picture. Pushed until the paper ripped and a hole swallowed her face.

“New Scotland Yard, Detective-Inspector Lestrade’s office.”

“Hi, my name is John Watson.” He affected a hesitant, nervous voice, the mask slipping into place. “I—I need to get in touch with Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. Let Me Be Your Singing Corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Twenty-Seven" by MS MR

**November 27**

New Scotland Yard buzzed with routine activity, officers, and civilians milling in pockets throughout the building. Sherlock strolled past faded faces, coat swirling around his lean figure as he passed between desks and bent heads. He slipped into Lestrade's office and dropped into a chair before the desk. Lestrade looked up from his computer with an expectant face.

"So—got anything for me?" he asked, looking across the desk at the consulting detective. Sherlock shook his head, frustration twisting his sharp features as he dug a nail into the thick wool of his jacket.

"Nothing yet. I'm going over the files again, looking into the victim's backgrounds for a possible lead." Disappointment flickered over Lestrade's face, but a sudden smile chased the expression. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. _"What?"_ he demanded, watching Lestrade's smile widen.

"It just so happens that I have some interesting information for you," Lestrade said, frustratingly smug. Sherlock's eyes darkened, and he watched Lestrade retrieve a slip of paper from a desk drawer. Placing it on the desk, the DI slid it across. Reaching out, Sherlock picked the scrap up with hesitant fingers and turned it over. It was a phone message.

_John Watson, calling for Sherlock Holmes_

_Offered his medical expertise for the Sawyer case._

Below was a phone number. Sherlock looked up and found Lestrade watching him, a slight smile on his face. Sherlock scowled.

"You spoke with him?"

Lestrade nodded, a sly look in his eyes. "Indeed, I did." He sounded almost pleased and Sherlock bristled. "He seemed _very_ eager to get in touch with you. Hoped his 'expertise' as a doctor might _'come in handy.'_ " The DI stressed the last few words, winking. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Right. Thanks." He rose to his feet, stuffing the slip of paper into a pocket. Lestrade stood as well, eyebrow quirked as his arms folded over his chest. The smug little smile was still in place. Sherlock hated it.

"You think you'll call him?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock flashed him a hard look.

"John Watson—and any attention he may be seeking at the moment—is not my concern. There are eight people dead and no answers." He shoved a hand through his hair, frustration ticking along the edges of his jaw. "I'm not going to waste my time pandering to some besotted cry baby."

Lestrade sucked in a breath, "That's rather harsh, Sherlock." His tone was admonishing, chastising. "The man _has_ just lost someone."

Sherlock dismissed the words with an irate twiddle of his fingers. "As you said, Lestrade. She was his ex, and they barely dated for two months. I am sure he does not need comfort." His mouth tightened in an imperceptible grimace. "As you well know, I am not one that people turn to for the softer side of humanity." The words were hard and rough, dripping with an edge of self-loathing. Shaking his head, Sherlock turned to leave, hands in his pockets. He paused, hand on the door when Lestrade called after him.

"They're doing the autopsy on Sawyer at Bart's tomorrow." Sherlock nodded and moved to leave again, but Lestrade continued, "John works there, you know." There was an edge of amused teasing to the words, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

Stepping out of the office, he slammed the door behind him. The noise was loud and sudden in the low drone of the office, the force rattling the glass on either side of the door. Sherlock smirked as heads turned towards him and the sound. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he strode through the bullpen, brows drawing down in a scowl.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

There had to be a connection. _Had to be_. The frustration of it, the creeping feeling the answer must be staring Sherlock _right in the face,_ was almost enough to drive him mad.

Almost.

Curling his fingers around a long gone-cold mug of tea, Sherlock stared at the pictures strewn across his desk. The 'before and after shots'. On the left, pictures of living, boring humans, caught in the thread of their dull lives. On the right, infinitely more interesting and deeply macabre, their corpses. Alter-egos. The faded, greyed-out versions of people who once walked the streets, breathing thick London air into their lungs. Spoke and laughed and cried.

Lived and died.

It was both beautiful and utterly maddening. To be so close to understanding, divining, _knowing,_ yet kept away by the missing pieces of a puzzle Sherlock couldn't see in its entirety. There was a satisfaction in digging into a mystery for the threads that held everything together. He lived for those moments. The moments when he finally hooked his fingers around that string, pulling until the entire façade unraveled.

As much as he lived for that feeling, he died for the moments when the unravelling was impossible. It was rare, granted, but still happened. The unsolved ones. The dead cases. The mocking, closed mouth of corpses who had nothing more to tell him beyond the fact of their lifeless bodies. It was infuriating. Enough to drive him mad, drive him to oblivion and the chase of an alternative high. A substance-induced feeling of God-like omnipresence, omnipotence, omniscience.

Lifting Sarah's pictures, alive and dead, here and gone, Sherlock stared at them. Took in the way her face faded to grey. The rough brick wall behind her limp head.

Sometimes he envied the people who put these bodies in front of him. The actual creators of 'The Game.' First move: steal life from mundane people, turn them into fascinating playthings. _They_ knew what happened, the murderers. Of course they did. They made the first move. Plunged the knife, pulled the trigger, stole the breath from wheezing lungs.

The killers knew the answers because they wrote the question in blood and bile and broken bones. Smeared the red on the walls and made him dance.

Leaning forward, Sherlock dropped the photos onto the desk and pressed the heels of his hands hard against his closed eyes.

Sometimes, and almost always when the case was as immovable and stringent as this one, he wished he truly knew the inside of a killer's mind.

Deeply. Intimately. Personally and from experience.

People called him a freak. Said he was as bad as those he hunted. Sick and twisted, made dark by the blood on his hands. Even though the blood came from seeking answers and not from taking lives, it never mattered. In the eyes of those who condemned him, he was as good as the same, as bad as them. He reveled in the sight of the dead, the call of the grave. To them, this made him just as wrong as those who dealt in death.

It was almost enough to drive him mad. The need to understand. To know in an intimate, first-hand way the thoughts and feelings of a killer. Not because he wished to kill, but because he _needed to understand_. Needed to _know._ How could he stop these murders without all the facts? He was thorough. For that, he was a freak. He may get results, he may have put terrible people behind bars, but nothing could change the stain it left on him. Nothing could take away that label.

Sherlock dug his nails against his cheek until blood welled in the shallow cuts. He grabbed an old t-shirt and shoved it against his bleeding face, digging out his mobile with the other. Three rings trilled in his ear before the line connected.

"Sargent Donovan."

"Hello, Sally." Sherlock dropped the t-shirt from his face, studying the stains in the fabric.

A frustrated sigh met his greeting.

"Hey, freak," the voice on the other end replied, tense and hard, "What do you want? If you're looking for Lestrade, he's in a meeting."

"I know," Sherlock said, his tone clipped, "Just calling to see what time Sarah Sawyer's autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow."

Another loud sigh, as if he were inconveniencing Sally in the worst way. His fingers spasmed on the table, twitching. He curled them into a tight fist, fighting the urge to tear them through the exposed skin of his forearm.

"Fine." The brief ruffling of papers. "Sawyer's scheduled for 14:30 tomorrow. Follow-up at 16:00."

"Thank you, Sally," Sherlock replied, about to hang up when Sally's voice made him stop.

"What, didn't get a good enough look at the crime scene?" The question sounded genuine, and Sherlock paused. He opened his mouth to respond, but Sally went on, "You need a little more gore to get your jollies off, freak?" She laughed, and Sherlock ended the call with a scowl.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

**November 28**

The morgue was cold. Impersonal and stainless. Walking across the tiled floor, Sherlock's footsteps echoed back at him from the white walls and rows of stainless steel cold chambers.

Bent over a half-covered body, long brown hair tied back in a loose bun, a small woman looked up as he approached.

"Hi Sherlock," she greeted him, pushing her mask down to offer a nervous smile. Sherlock nodded to her, ignoring her anxious energy. It was part and parcel with who she was. The behaviour was not at all like the responses he elicited from those who considered him 'abnormal.'

"Molly." He swept past her, approaching the gurney. "How was the autopsy?" Looking down at Sawyer's still form, he noted the half-finished stitching of the neat Y-incision marking the dead woman's chest.

"Pretty routine." Molly watched him pull on a pair of blue surgical gloves. "Nothing out of the ordinary, aside from obvious signs of death by oxygen deprivation." She set her mask back over her mouth, muffling her voice as she continued, "Brain trauma, burst vessels, fluid in the lungs, heart damage. Everything you would expect from someone who died that way." Lifting a thick needle, Molly began looping thick, wiry surgical thread through grey skin, drawing the edges of her neat incision closed with practiced movements.

Sherlock watched for a moment, then bent over the body. He tilted Sarah's chin up, studying the strangulation marks again. They were a little less prominent against the dark, mottled skin, but still evident. Hand moving down to her left shoulder, Sherlock traced a finger over the scythe marking.

"It's interesting, isn't it?" Molly's bright voice broke into his thoughts, and he snatched his hand away, looking up at her from his bent posture. "The mark. It's so…unique." Her wide brown eyes were sincere, crinkling at the edges with a smile hidden behind her mask. Sherlock smiled back, a slight upturn at the corners of his lips.

Molly was never dull, nor did she ever treat him like he was wrong or strange. For a man who didn't have friends, she came close. However, her flirting was annoying and something he could do without. She was well aware he was gay, yet still made the odd attempt. Maybe it was a habit, left over from before she knew. 

Or maybe because he sometimes used it to his advantage, manipulating her into giving him what he wanted with coy smiles and the occasional wink.

"Yes," Sherlock straightened, looking down at the marking, "it is." His fingers itched to touch again, and he clenched his hands into fists.

"Why do you think he does it?" Molly tied a small knot at the end of her suture before looking up. Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't know. It appears to be a calling card. A way of letting us know these are _his_ , that these people are his victims..." his voice trailing off, he allowed himself to trace the scythe with his finger again. "It feels like something…"

"More?" Sherlock looked at Molly in surprise, and she flushed under his direct stare. "Um…" she cleared her throat, a nervous giggle slipping out. "Sorry—I mean…" She shifted, taking a deep breath. "It seems like it's not just a marking, you know?" Her eyes drifted to Sarah's face. "Like it means something to him, that mark. More than just a way to say, 'here I am, this was me.'" She looked flustered and waved her hands. "Sorry, I'll stop talking now."

Looking at the corpse again, Sherlock blinked. "No, Molly, that's alright." Frowning, he tapped a finger against the stainless steel table. "I think you're right." He looked up, meeting her eyes again, and she blushed. "There is something more to it, but I don't know what." Releasing a frustrated sigh, Sherlock shed his gloves and tossed them into a biohazard bin. "There's something I am missing, but I can't see it."

The silence stretched out, and he saw Molly raise a hand, look at her own bloody glove, and drop it again.

"Send me the autopsy results once you have them typed up." Spinning on his heel, Sherlock strode from the morgue, black coat billowing out behind him.

He felt Molly's eyes on his back and quickened his step.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The hospital cafeteria droned with mixed voices, a wash of background noise to the throbbing in his temples. Sherlock stared into the black liquid of his coffee. Imagined dumping it over his hands until blisters rose on his seared skin.

Someone sat across from him, and he tamped down on a snarl. Their chair scraped on the tile floor, making the hair stand up on his arms and neck. A sharp twinge of annoyance rippled along his spine. There were plenty of empty seats and tables in the room, why did this person need to sit here?

He raised his head to unleash biting words and came face to face with John Watson.

"Ah, hey," the man greeted him, a warm smile spreading over his face. "I thought that was you."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock replied, slow in his surprise, "I didn't expect to see you here."

John cocked his head with a bemused smile. Placing his elbow on the tabletop, he dropped his chin into the curve of his hand. "I mean, I do work here." He sounded amused and Sherlock scowled, eyes narrowing.

"Yes, right. Of course." Head jerking around, he looked away from John's sharp blue eyes, scanning the cafeteria. He spotted Molly near the counter, deep in conversation with a colleague. Grinding his teeth, Sherlock turned back to John. "Sorry—can I help you with something?" He expected John to react to the rude tone, but he smiled.

"You're a bit of an asshole, aren't you?" he replied, voice soft. Sherlock blinked, sitting up straight, caught off guard. His brow furrowed.

"Excuse me?" 

John dropped his chin into his hand, lips parting in a pensive smile. "Just—you're rather rude, you know that?"

Sherlock scowled. "Obviously." He looked away again, unnerved by the steel in John's eyes.

"Ah, so it's intentional." John nodded, his small smile still in place. Sherlock found himself unable to divine the emotion behind the expression. It was unnerving. Settling back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest, closing himself off.

"What do you want, Doctor Watson?" he spat, pushing venom into the words. The man did jerk back at that, uncertainty filtering through his cryptic smile. His eyes shifted away, and Sherlock felt suddenly cold in the absence of their regard.

"I just—I wanted to see if you'd received my message," John said slowly, voice soft. His tone was a far cry from the brazen attitude with which he had called Sherlock out on his rude behaviour mere minutes ago. Sherlock almost felt bad for the man as John seemed to curl in on himself. Taking pity on the pathetic figure across from him, Sherlock tilted his head up to the ceiling and sighed.

"Yes, I got it," he replied, tapping the tips of his fingers against the chair leg. "Lestrade made sure to pass on your little _note_." He sneered the last word, upper lip drawing back in a snarl.

John was quiet for a long moment. Movements slow and controlled, he placed his hands on the table, palm down with the fingers spread. He seemed to be bracing himself for something. Tilting his head, Sherlock looked on with interest as the other man inhaled, taking in a long, deep breath.

"Mister Holmes. If I have in some way offended you, then I am sorry," John said, pushing his palms into the table until the metal surface fogged with his body heat. He raised his eyes to Sherlock's, who stared back at him with evident confusion. "I only hoped that I could help in some way. But, I don't think I deserve to be spoken to like this, so maybe it's best if I retract my offer and leave you alone." Standing, John nudged his chair back, drawing another sharp squeal of metal on the tile as he did so. Sherlock cringed at the noise.

John moved around the table, toward the exit. When he drew level with Sherlock, the detective stood as his arm shot out, catching John's wrist and pulling him to a halt. They stared at one another, John rocking back on his heels. Sherlock blinked at his own daring. He had not planned to grab the other man. His arm had made the decision seemingly of its own accord. Now, with John's wrist gripped in his hand, skin hot against his skin, he didn't know what to do next.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock released John's arm. "Sorry." His words breaking off and he blinked in confusion. "I'm not sure what—I apologize, Doctor Watson." The sentences split, blending into one another. Standing this close, he could see John's eyes were a mix of cobalt and indigo blue, tinged with darker flecks around the pupil. His scent, dark and musky, filled Sherlock's nose, washing over him.

John's warm breath wafted over the triangle of bare skin above Sherlock's coat collar. Finally, he spoke.

"What happened to your face?"

Sherlock raised a hand to his own cheek. His fingers brushed the shallow cuts made by his nails, and he dropped his hand quickly to his side. "It's nothing," he replied, tearing his gaze away from John's burning eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Didn't say I was," John murmured, and Sherlock's eyes darted back to his.

The noise in the cafeteria faded into something tinny in Sherlock's ears as they looked at each other. When a voice called out, loud and sudden, he could almost hear the air around them shatter.

"Sherlock!"

He turned, finding Molly making her way over. John followed his gaze. Sherlock heard the other man let out a long, heavy breath beside him and looked over.

"Oh—hi, John." Walking up to them, Molly smiled at the shorter man. John smiled back, tilting his head as he stepped away from Sherlock. The heat of his body dissipated with the distance between them. Sherlock felt its absence with a profound chill.

"Sherlock, I'll have the autopsy results ready by tonight," Molly continued, smiling up at him.

"Excuse me," John muttered, slipping away. Sherlock turned to watch him go, staring long after the cafeteria doors swung shut. At his side, Molly sighed.

"Poor John—he used to date Sarah, did you know that?" She looked sad, fidgeting with her lab coat. "Can't be easy, knowing someone he used to be with is laying on a slab downstairs."

Sherlock's head jerked around, and he blinked down at her. She looked up at him, confused.

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking back at the doors again. "Not sure," He said, eyes narrowing, "There's… something. But I'm not sure what it is."

Something tingled at the back of his head, like goosebumps without the physical signs. He smoothed a hand over the scratches on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back from vacation, finally writing this story again. Hoping to post an update for _combat fatigue_ tomorrow as well, but we will see what happens.


	4. Ultraviolence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit descriptions of sex, murder, and strangulation. Heads up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Ultraviolence_ by Lana Del Rey

The doors slammed behind him. John moved through the hospital hallway with jerky steps, nodding at two men as they passed with a casual smile. He ducked into a supply closet once they disappeared around a corner.

John locked himself in. Turned and crashed his fist into the wall. Again. And again. Blood smeared against the white paint and dripped from his knuckles. He spread his hand over the red spatter, palm open and fingers wide, breathing through hard gasps.

So close. So fucking _close_ to blowing it all. Throwing everything away. Just to give a peek of himself.

John slammed his other fist into the wall, grunting at the distant pain as his knuckles split open.

Something in him ached to bare his darkness to Sherlock Holmes. To destroy him with it. Use it to crush his bones into dust, break his sharp, pale face into blood and brain matter. The man got under John's skin. He wanted to rip Sherlock's off and return the favour.

He dug through the supply shelves for gauze and tape. Wrapping his knuckles with awkward, one-handed movements and cleaned his blood from the walls. Clean-up was easy. Practiced routine.

The pattern of it calmed his mind, but adrenaline thrummed through veins, a buzzing, insistent hum inside his head. John stuffed his wrapped hands into his pockets and slipped out of the closet.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Back in his flat, John paced the floor with erratic movements. Clenched his bloodied knuckles until the scabs cracked and bled through the bandages.

He needed a plan. A distraction. Something to keep him from unravelling from the slow burn of working towards the destruction of Sherlock Holmes.

Crossing from window to kitchen and back, John traced a path over the floor. He felt like a caged animal, confined in a too-small enclosure. Blood dripped from his left hand, and he ignored it, letting the drop stain the blue rug at his feet.

The cafeteria had nearly been a mistake. John had not intended to run into Sherlock—had been waiting for the man to come to him first. That was crucial. _John_ meant it to be essential. Bring the mountain to the man. But he had stepped into the busy room, saw the detective sitting alone, and couldn't resist. It was like an obsession, the pull he'd felt. His feet had carried him to the table, intending to ask with affected innocence if Sherlock had any leads. Feel him out. Keep track of his knowledge.

The man had been sharp and rude, all rough edges. Weirdly vulnerable beneath the snarling bravado. It had tweaked something in John, evidence of weakness in the detective.

He was beginning to think Sherlock's rough exterior, his high and mighty persona, might be more of a mask—a front. Maybe not entirely, but in partiality, it seemed possible. There was an uncertainty in Sherlock's harsh words and sneering lips. It might make John's work harder, or it might help.

Standing at the window, John dragged his nails against the windowsill. Slivers of white-painted wood buckled and splintered beneath the scraping movement. He remembered pressing his fingers to Sherlock's palm. Sherlock's hand locking around his arm in the hospital cafeteria, holding him back as he'd made to leave. The words of apology and look of confusion, as if Sherlock's own actions came as a surprise to himself.

Likely they had. The man affected such a closed-off guise, it was probable he had little in the way of close relationships. Standing there with scratches in the shapes of fingernails on his face, the detective had apologized. Thought John was _worried_ about the marks. Seemed to seek some kind of concerned humanity in John.

Digging his own nails deeper into the wooden window frame, John pressed his other hand to the glass. The cold surface sent a chill through his arm that made him shiver.

It had been almost a week since Sarah. A distraction was precisely what he needed.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

**November 29**

The club was hot. Bodies twisted and shimmied through hazy air and the heavy thud of bass-forward music. A heady smell of sweat and alcohol hung in the air, underlined with the blanket scent of human skin and temporary rapture.

John moved through the deliberate chaos on the balls of his feet. Bandaged hands loose at his sides as his feet carried him over the sticky dance floor with sleek steps. A woman bumped into him, brushing up against his tight blue t-shirt and faded jeans. He let his hand drift down her side, along the curve of her back. She tilted her mouth to his neck, eyes faded with some kind of party drug. Likely ecstasy, given the excessive sweat beading her brow.

No good. John liked his victims alert, aware. Drugged was too easy.

John brushed her off and moved on. The woman twisted away, dancing with her arms above her head, sinuous and untethered. John passed through the crowd, bodies pressing in on all sides. His eyes searched, roving until they focused on a youthful face. Leaning against a wall at the edge of the dance floor, a young man watched him. Short brown hair, dark green jacket. Young, barely in his twenties.

He watched John with uncertain hunger.

John made his way over, holding the man's gaze as he slipped between sweat-slick bodies. They came together with heat between them, breath mingling as people pushed into John.

"What's your name, pet?" John asked, dropping his hand against the wall beside the younger man's head. They were almost the same height, and the victim-to-be stared at John's mouth with yearning in his green eyes.

"James," came the reply, pushed through dry lips and a raspy throat, almost a croak. "You can call me Jimmy."

John's free hand came up, fingers trailing over James' arm with fire in the touch. "How 'bout I call you whatever I want, and we get out of here?" James' breathing quickened, and he tilted forward. Their mouths came together with hot, wet fusion. John licked his way past the younger man's lips with slow, steady pressure, fisting a hand in James' short hair.

James' hands caught the front of John's t-shirt, and John's lips curved at the edges.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Walls covered in cheap, outdated wallpaper. Generic art and cum stains rubbed into the carpet. These hotels, rented by the hour, were always the same. They were just as filthy as he was, and John loved them.

James weaved against him as they stepped into the room. Closing the door, John flipped the lock in place before turning to the man standing at the foot of the bed. James' face was pale and uncertain.

"What's the matter, pet?" John murmured, pressing forward to slide his hand down the young man's chest. "You nervous?" James hesitated. His hand rose, settling over John's, almost a silent plea to stop.

Almost.

He nodded, and John moved his hand higher, stroking a finger over the curve of James' jaw. "Don't be." Leaning forward, John flicked his tongue over the sensitive skin below James' ear. "I'll make you feel good."

James dropped his hand, letting John tear off his jacket and push him back onto the bed. The thin mattress creaked beneath their weight as John knelt, his knee between James' thighs. He crawled forward, dropping down until his body hovered over James' chest, and pressed a slow, insistent kiss to the younger man's lips. James opened to him, groaned into his mouth and raised his hips in search of friction. John grinned, biting at his upper lip.

He could make the kid come in his pants, it wouldn't take long.

Fingers catching in the fabric of James' shirt, John slipped his hand up to his chest and higher. Caressed James' throat with his palm. The bandages wrapped around his knuckles brushed James' skin, making him look down.

"What happened to your hands?" he asked, and John gave his throat a gentle squeeze.

"Don't worry about it, baby," he crooned, bending to suck a bruise over the curve of his Adam's apple. "You're more important." James shivered, pupils blown wide. He bucked his hips against John's, one leg slipping up to hook over John's thigh. His breathing came in low gasps, and John traced a fingertip over the pulse point at the side of his neck.

"Good boy." John slid his other hand down to cup the younger man through his jeans. His fingers tensed on James' throat as a groan slipping from his mouth, hips rolling with eager energy.

John dropped his body, straddling James' thighs and grinding down. James cried out, and John clenched his hand tighter, cutting the noise off.

"Shh, baby." James' pulse fluttered wild and fast under his thumb, and the young man tilted his head back, eyes sliding shut. "Be quiet for me, that's a good boy." John's hold loosened a little, and James gasped, face turning red. His breath whooshed out in a loud rush and he whined as John rolled his hips down. His hands came up, locking on John's shoulders, pulling him closer. Their mouths met with slick tongues and hot breath. John pressed his fingertips into the veins of James' neck, swallowing down the younger man's soft moans. The movement of James' hips became erratic, rutting against John with clumsy movements.

It wouldn't be long now.

Locking his hand tight on the centre of James' throat, John pressed down hard with his hips. His free hand slid between them, moving under the hem of James' jeans to take him in hand. He cut off James' strangled yelp of pleasure with his palm. Lost in his own lust and endorphins, the younger man closed his eyes, seemingly unaware of the pressure against his windpipe.

"Wanna come for me, pet?" John breathed against James' cheek, stroking over the hot flesh in his hand. "I'll make you come, you wanna come?" James choked, writhing and keening in a high, wheezing sound against the grip on his neck. He was nodding and squirming, swelling in John's hand. "There you go, come for me. There's a good boy." Voice almost a purr, John leaned down to bruise James' neck with his mouth. The younger man jerked, crying out and spilling over John's palm.

The grin fell from John's lips, and his face dropped into a blank, dead-eyed expression, hand tightening around James' throat. Caught up in his orgasm, James didn't seem to notice his airway closing off. By the time his eyelids flashed open, locking onto John's face, the light was already dimming from his eyes. The controlled lack of blood to his brain sucked away his consciousness, body falling limp. When the shudders of his climax began to fade, new spasms followed, limbs twitching with oxygen deprivation. James' eyelashes flickered, eyes half-open, mouth forming a loose 'o' shape. No air slipped in or out of his open mouth, and John pressed the side of his hand harder into the rough ring of bone and muscle beneath.

James went still and heavy under him, head lolling back on the pillow. John kept his hand in place as seconds ticked by, rolling into minutes. He held himself still, and rigid, eyes fixed on the face in front of him. Watched the skin turn red, white, blue, and grey. Tongue dangling over cyanic lips and bruises rising on the curve of his neck.

In a blur of motion, a sharp contrast to his controlled, stiff position, John leapt off the bed. Jerked back from the body and came onto his feet on the ugly red carpet. His breath came in loud gasps, pupils dilated wide with arousal. His cock, hard and throbbing, strained at the seam of his jeans.

James lay on the bed, no more than a body with a silent chest.

John spun, stalked into the bathroom to stand over the toilet. Slipping himself from his jeans, he locked his hand around his hard length and pumped until he spurted into the toilet bowl with a guttural grunt. He flushed the evidence. Washed his hands in the sink, drying them with a scratchy hand towel that he tucked into a back pocket.

Pulling gloves out, he slipped them on over his bandaged fingers. Grabbed another hand towel and wet it down. Returning to the room, he washed James' grey face and arms. Smoothed the rough material over the lines of his hands and left him with the mess in his pants.

John straddled the body, settling back on his haunches. He dug for a plastic-wrapped scalpel, unwrapping the tool with slow reverence. Tilted the blade until the poor lighting from the bedside lamp painted gold along the thin edge.

Jerking aside the collar of James' shirt, he bent and pushed the tip of the scalpel into his left shoulder. Watched blood rise sluggishly from the cut as he drew the blade in an arching curve. The scythe clarified among red and skin, etched into being by John's steady hands.

He tossed the scalpel into the bedside garbage, wondering if anyone would ever notice it. Maybe it would give Sherlock something to obsess over. John liked the thought of that, Sherlock obsessing over him. Even if he wouldn't know it was John. Not yet.

Grabbing James' jacket, John pulled it onto the young man's body, zipping it shut. He hefted the body into his arms, cradling James against his shoulder with an arm around his back. He took an experimental step, evaluating the drag of James' feet on the carpet. Little too conspicuous, harder to pass off like James was just drunk and leaning on him for support.

John sighed, dumping the body back on the bed. Maybe it was time for a different set-up. The alleyways were getting boring, and he was always up for a new challenge.

He leaned James back against the headboard, arms folded in his lap.

Tilted the dead man's head back so his pale, blue-tinged face would be turned toward anyone who entered the room. Standing at the end of the bed, John admired his handiwork.

A knock at the door made him freeze, hands tensed at his sides. He held his breath, waiting. Silence.

Another knock.

John hesitated, rapid thoughts flicking through his head. His tongue flicked out, sweeping over his bottom lip. A third knock. He turned and walked to the door, pulling it open with a jerk.

"Excuse me, sir, your hour is—" The man standing there paused, hand raised. John recognized him from the desk. His eyes were shifting past him, widening and fixing on the body.

John sighed and smiled when the man looked back at him. It was a disarming expression, and the man smiled back, uncertainty and confusion in his face. Laying a hand on the man's shoulder, John gripped it with friendly pressure.

"Hello," he said, leaning forward to look into the hall. It was empty. John looked back at the man to find him blinking, bemused, eyes flickering back to the body on the bed. His grin widened, and John yanked him into the room when the man looked away from his face.

He kicked the door shut and jerked his arm, making the man stumble against the edge of the bed. He fell to one knee on the carpet. Stepping forward, John bent and gripped the man's chin as he tilted backward, trying to find his balance. Slipping his other hand to the back of the man's head, John set his back and twisted his arms in a smooth, sinuous motion.

The man's neck snapped, and he crumpled forward, head striking the bedframe. Blood seeped into the red fibres of the carpet, and John sucked in a slow, even breath. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he dug it out with gloved hands. Tilting the screen up, he frowned at the text message. The number was unfamiliar.

_I would like to meet with you, if convenient. Also, even if inconvenient.  
-Sherlock Holmes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James is meant to be James Phillimore from A Study in Pink. He's the youth murdered by the cabbie. I've made him a bit older here, in his 20s, as this takes place a little later than the show time frame (evidenced by John's hair) but doesn't follow canon otherwise for the timeline.


	5. In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Heed the chapter title.**

**November 29**

After their interaction in the cafeteria, John plagued Sherlock’s thoughts for the rest of the day, and well into the next. He paced the messy confines of his flat, stopping before the fireplace to stare into the dark, open eye sockets of the skull on the mantle. Sherlock’s hands flexed at his sides, twitching, eyes locked with the skull in a one-sided stare down. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grabbed at it with grasping hands. 

“Lestrade?” 

“He’s having sex with them. The killer.” Lestrade’s voice emerged small and tinny from the speaker, diving right in, no preamble given in terms of a greeting. “Before the murder occurs. There were signs of sexual activity in the autopsy report for Sarah Sawyer.”

“Rape?” Crossing the room to look out the window with unfocused eyes, Sherlock bit down on his lower lip. Murderers were one thing, rapists quite another. There was no intrigue in such a crime, only abhorrent horror. Disgust burning in his stomach, he wondered if the Grim Reaper was as intriguing as he had initially believed. 

Lestrade was speaking again, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to the conversation. “No—seems consensual. No signs of combative wounds or forced entry. It could have been unique to Sawyer’s case, but I dug into the autopsy reports to be sure. Something we missed, but the evidence is there that he repeated the pattern with some of the others, possibly all. And, before you ask, no—there wasn’t any DNA left behind. The bastard’s careful, I’ll give him that.”

“So, what?” Sherlock stared at the empty fireplace. “He beds them, engages in sexual activity with them, then kills them?” He raised his eyes to the mantle place, the skull staring back at him. 

“Looks like it. Likely driven by sexual motivation, then,” Lestrade replied. Sherlock shook his head before remembering Lestrade couldn’t see him.

“No—I still think there’s a deeper motivation we’re missing. The sex might just be convenience. A… _bonus,_ I suppose. These killings, they’re too elegant to be grounded in something so basic as sexual gratification.” He heard Lestrade’s exasperated huff and rolled his eyes. “You have to admire him, Lestrade. This is the first real challenge I’ve encountered in _ages_.”

“I do _not_ have to admire him, Sherlock,” Lestrade said sharply, “He’s a killer, not a celebrity.” 

Sherlock looked at the newspaper on the table. His eyes narrowed at the headline, and his lips quirked. _Grim Reaper Strikes Again!_ “Close enough.” Lestrade’s answering sigh almost made Sherlock feel guilty, but he pushed the emotion aside. There was no time for sentiment, not now. Not when they had new information. “It’s been over a week since he killed,” Sherlock noted, frowning down at the date of the news article. “Didn’t you say he was ramping up? Shouldn’t there have been another murder by now?”

“Blimey, you almost sound eager for it,” Lestrade’s reply was exasperated before he sighed again, schooling his voice into a calmer tone. “But yeah—I’d say we’re due for another. Stay sharp, I’ll call if anything comes up.”

“All right.” Sherlock’s hand rose to his face as the line went dead, prodding at his lower lip. Moving to the window again, eyes narrowed, he sorted the new information into place within the neatly organized sections of his mind palace. Watching people stroll by, Sherlock wondered if any of them would be next. Wondered if it were possible to predict such a thing, based on their gaits and the harried looks on their faces as they moved about their dull little lives. 

Gripping the windowsill, his thoughts turned to John Watson, and their interaction in the cafeteria. It wasn’t the first time someone had called Sherlock out on his less than civil behaviour and brash mannerisms. Having initially come across as an over-emotional man, shedding tears over a woman he had hardly seen in several months, John’s sentiment had repelled Sherlock. Sentiment was a repulsive character trait he rarely looked upon with anything resembling kindness. 

The man had surprised him by standing up for himself, and in such an unexpected way, flipping to a harsh, annoyed man. When he had noticed the marks on Sherlock’s face, made from his own nails, Sherlock had thought him concerned. Surely a medical man, soft and emotional as John Watson, had a bleeding heart big enough to worry over any little mark on every sociopath’s face?

Yet he had surprised Sherlock again, responding to Sherlock’s denial of concern with a softly murmured statement of, “ _didn’t say I was_.” It was that which stuck with him, making Sherlock pace across the sitting room, teeth worrying at this bottom lip. 

As with the Grim Reaper case, there was something about John Watson he wasn’t seeing. Despite ruling him out as a suspect in Sawyer’s murder, something didn’t sit right with him. Telling himself the fixation was no more than a drive for the truth, Sherlock noticed that dark had fallen outside, the glow of streetlights reaching in through the windows. Flicking on a lamp, he dropped onto the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, staring unseeing at the coffee table.

Emotional mess or not, John Watson was quickly becoming a puzzle he needed to solve. Try as he might to brush the curiousity aside, Sherlock found thoughts of the man wriggling their way into his skull. They distorted the clarity he needed to find the connections in the Grim Reaper case.

Digging his mobile out his pocket, he picked up the discarded phone message from the coffee table. Squinting, lips pressed tight together, he entered the number into his phone. Hesitated until his fingers chose for him, selecting the new contact and typing out a brief message.

 _I would like to meet with you, if convenient. Also, even if inconvenient._ _-Sherlock Holmes_

Sending the text, Sherlock sat back into the sofa. Eyes locked on the phone, he waited. As the seconds passed into minutes, half an hour speeding by, his agitation grew. Limbs twitching, he grabbed the device and thumbed the dark screen to wake it. Pressing down on the name _John Watson_ , he lifted the mobile to his ear as the line connected.

John picked up after the third ring.

“Doctor Watson.”

John sounded breathless, an edge to his voice that Sherlock couldn’t quite place. Unless he had caught him in a somewhat compromised position, and Sherlock doubted John was the type to answer the phone during such activities. His curiousity getting the better of him, he demanded, “Why do you sound like that?”

A pause. Sherlock fancied he could hear the other man thinking at the end of the line, his no doubt slow mind struggling.

“Like what?” John finally said, and Sherlock’s mouth quirked.

“Out of breath,” he clarified, indulging in a moment of smug self-satisfaction.

John’s reply came without hesitation, “Was running.” 

Moving across the room to sit in his chair, his legs crossed, Sherlock frowned at his knees. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It read 9:46pm. “Do you often make a habit of running so late at night?”

“I’m a doctor and a teacher—when else am I supposed to go running?” John shot back, sounding almost defensive. His tone of voice reminded Sherlock of their encounter in the cafeteria, and his eyes narrowed. 

“I thought you were between semesters?” he asked, keeping the question carefully casual.

There was a snort on the other end of the line. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” The words were amused, and Sherlock’s frown deepened at the vertical flip in the mood. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was more to John Watson than initially appeared at the surface.

“Mister Holmes?”

John’s voice made Sherlock start, and he realized he had lost track of the conversation. “Sorry—what?”

“Nothing, you just got really quiet. It was kind of weird.” 

Smiling, settling back into his chair, Sherlock plucked at a loose thread in his shirt, winding it around his finger. Somewhere in the back of his head, the idle realization formed, that John’s comment did not rankle the way it usually did when someone deemed him strange. Something in the way John said it felt less like an insult, more like a fond tease. Ripping away the thread, he cleared his throat and opened his mouth to reply. A sudden noise on the other end, a sort of low grunt and following curse from John, gave him pause.

“What was that?” he asked, sitting up again. There was a pause, then—

“Sorry, I just—one moment.” There was a muffled sound as if John had put the phone into his pocket. Sherlock strained, trying to pick up anything else, but the line was quiet. Finally, the noise of John’s breathing returned, echoing over the connection. “Sorry,” he said again.

“What was that?” The words emerged sharp and commanding, and Sherlock winced, wondering if John would hang up.

“Tripped,” John replied, the ease with which he answered catching Sherlock off guard. “It’s a real doozy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the childish word.

 _Good lord, spare me_ , he thought, tilting the phone away from his head as he released a loud sigh. John’s voice, faint through the distanced speaker, drifted from the device. Sherlock quickly pressed it back to his ear, missing the meaning. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

 _“I said_ , _”_ John began, a faint hint of annoyance filtering through the words, “why are you calling me so late? Is it about me withdrawing my offer of assistance?” There was a pause before John spoke again, and Sherlock swore he could hear a smug edge to John’s voice. “Or are you calling to apologize for being such an incredibly rude arsehole?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the explicit language before narrowing. “I already apologized,” he snapped, anger piqued. “You have quite the mouth on you, Doctor Watson, for a medical man.”

“Was in the army for three years, remember?” John quipped back. It sounded like he was opening a door, something clicking that Sherlock assumed was a lock. 

“Of course…” Sherlock replied, words trailing off as something almost fell into place in his mind. Almost. He frowned, straining, trying to identify what it was. 

John’s voice broke through, scattering the thought before he could grasp it enough to identify what it was. “So, are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Sherlock listened to a long pause before John spoke again, his voice deeper than before, lower. “Tell me what you want.”

There was an undercurrent to the words that made Sherlock feel John was speaking in doubles, a secondary meaning filtering through the innocuous question. 

“Uh, I—I just—” Sherlock broke off, biting down on his bottom lip with a scowl. He felt flustered. Sherlock rarely—if ever—felt flustered, and here was John Watson, doing it for the third time in several days. Sherlock told himself he hated it, but the shiver that ran over his skin appeared to contradict him. Jaw tense, he forced the words past his teeth. “I would like you to rescind your retraction of offering your medical expertise.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying you’d like my help after all?” John asked, amusement lightening his previously dark tone. 

“If you want to be simple about it, then yes,” Sherlock snapped, annoyed at the other man’s ability to turn his words so quickly. 

“All right.” John’s reply was unexpected. Sherlock resisted the urge to stew, once more staring at the skull above the fireplace.

“Right. Okay.” He let a short pause stretch out, then cleared his throat, adding, “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

He ended the call, cutting John off before he could reply. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

**November 30**

Sherlock woke the next day in his chair. He had sat before the cold fireplace, organizing and sorting through his thoughts, analyzing the phone conversation until he had fallen asleep. Realizing his phone had slipped off his lap and onto the floor, Sherlock bent to retrieve it. The screen came to life long enough to see he had several texts, and numerous missed calls from Lestrade before the device died. 

Frustrated, Sherlock sprang to his feet, pacing to the bedroom to retrieve a charge cord. Dropping onto the bed, he plugged the mobile in, watching with growing impatience as the phone rebooted. When it was finished, he flipped through the text messages. There were four from Lestrade, all along the same lines of _pick up your phone!_ Another was from Molly, regarding the autopsy reports. 

The last was from John. Sherlock hesitated, looking at the brief preview of the message: ‘ _So, how are you going to’_ was all he could see, and he opened the text with a strange trepidation.

_So, how are you going to make it up to me?_

Despite the pull of Lestrade’s five missed calls, Sherlock found himself typing out a response before he could stop and consider why.

_Make what up to you? SH_

Sending the short reply, he dialled Lestrade. The DI picked up halfway through the first ring. 

“Why even have a phone if you’re not going to answer it?” 

“Hello to you, too, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, ignoring the angry words. 

“Sherlock!”

Sucking in a breath, he let it out in a loud sigh. “My phone died. Now, what is it?” The mobile buzzed in his hand, and Sherlock tilted his head to read the text banner at the top of the screen.

 **John Watson:** _For being a massive git. How are you going to make it up to me?_

Sherlock’s lips quirked as he pressed the phone back to his ear, barely catching Lestrade’s reply, “There’s been another murder.”

Spine turning rigid, Sherlock rose to his feet, nearly unplugging the phone in his haste. Scowling, he sank back down on the bed, struggling with the tangled cord. 

“Where?” Putting the call on speakerphone, he opened the map browser on the device.

“One of those ‘sex motels’—you know, the ones you pay for by the hour?” Lestrade gave the address, and Sherlock typed it in, zooming in on the location. It took him a moment to notice the silence stretching out over the line.

“What is it?” he asked, sensing Lestrade’s hesitation. “What’s different?”

“How’d you—never mind. You’ll see when you get here.”

“Not an alley this time?” Sherlock pressed, and he heard Lestrade sigh. 

“That, and other things. Just—hurry up, all right? The crew is ready, we’re waiting on you.”

“Okay.” Sherlock ended the call, staring down at the phone. From the sound of it, the Reaper had broken his pattern, in more ways than one. But why? And why now?

His phone buzzed again, a reminder of John’s unanswered text. Thumbing it open, Sherlock frowned down at the message. 

_How are you going to make it up to me?_

A shiver of anticipation, unexpected and unnerving, coursed through his body, and Sherlock’s breathing quickened. The frown clearing, he typed out his response, sending it before he could second-guess himself.

_Another Reaper murder. Care to join? SH_

The reply was almost immediate.

_Send me the address._

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

By the time he arrived at the hotel, police tape was already in place. Donovan hovered at the entrance, overseeing officers as they interviewed staff and sought to create order of curious passing foot-traffic.

“Freak,” she greeted him when he was near enough. “Took you long enough.” Sherlock tossed her a cold look, pausing to scan the growing crowd. 

“Have you seen Doctor Watson?” he asked, failing to spot a familiar face. Turning back to Sally, he saw she had raised an eyebrow.

“Called him after all, did you?” She sounded amused. “What—trying to make friends?”

Opening his mouth to unleash a scathing retort, Sherlock was caught off guard by a sudden presence at his side. Turning, he found John there, looking freshly showered and well-rested. Almost glowing with a strange, serene energy.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized, rubbing a hand through his damp hair. “Traffic was awful.” 

Sherlock frowned down at him. He had not heard him approach, had not even noticed the man until he was right beside him. Having prided himself on his sharp awareness of his surroundings, Sherlock felt off-balance at finding John suddenly so close. The shorter man frowned, looking up at him.

“Something wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. There was a crime scene to analyze, and he was wasting time soothing his ego. He forced a rigid smile. “Nothing at all,” he said smoothly. Donovan made a disgusted noise.

“Aside from two dead bodies, but since when has the freak ever cared about that?” she muttered, holding up the yellow police tape for them to pass. John paused as Sherlock slipped under, and the detective noted that his eyes flickered briefly to Sally with a sharp, appraising look. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was probably checking her out as a potential fling. Dimly, Sherlock wondered if he should warn John away, then frowned as he reflected on why he would bother. Staying silent, Sherlock walked through into the motel, John following on his heels. 

It was easy to find the right room. Several police officers stood outside the open door, looking in. Lestrade was among them, and he waved Sherlock forward. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, shooting John a glance. “Ah—hello again, Doctor Watson.” 

John nodded, a small smile on his lips. “John, please.” 

“Right, of course. Sorry, John.” Lestrade looked back to Sherlock. “It’s fairly clean, considering there are two bodies this time.” 

“ _Two_ bodies?” Sherlock repeated. Lestrade just nodded, gesturing for him to enter the room.

Stepping over the threshold, Sherlock halted barely beyond the door. A man lay at his feet, head turned at an unnatural angle, his wide-open eyes staring toward the open door of the bathroom. He was wearing a uniform Sherlock recognized as the motel staff outfit. In addition to the obviously broken neck, blood was pooled beneath his head from a gash across his temple, half-dried and thickening.

Looking up, he took in the body on the bed. A young man, head tilted back against the headboard, was looking directly toward the door. His face was grey and pale, eyes half-closed. The collar of his shirt was soaked through with thick blood. Donning a pair of gloves and hooking a finger along the edge of the shirt, Sherlock pulled it back. The scythe was carved into his flesh like all the others before him, clear as day. 

Letting the shirt collar fall back into place, he turned back to the body on the floor.

“No mark on the older man?” he asked, looking to Lestrade. The DI shook his head.

“Nothing. My guess is he interrupted the killer, maybe caught him by surprise.” 

Nodding, Sherlock knelt beside the body. Touching the muscles along the side of his neck, Sherlock located the severed vertebrae. “Obviously broken, but that’s rarely enough to kill someone on its own.”

Lestrade stepped forward, dropping to a knee. “How did he die then, if not from the neck injury?”

“Oh, it _was_ the neck injury that killed him,” Sherlock clarified, sitting back on his haunches. “It just wouldn’t have been immediate. Breaking someone’s neck doesn’t work in real life like it does in the movies. It’s not the break that kills, it’s the brain losing the ability to communicate with the body. Causes respiratory paralysis. Head injury didn't help.” Reaching out, he lifted the man’s face by the jaw. His skin was pale, the lips blue. Blood streaked his ashen skin. “See? Clear signs of respiratory arrest.” Sherlock looked up at John. “Doctor Watson, what do you—” 

Sherlock’s words caught in his throat when their gaze met. John’s expression was flat, dead-eyed, arms crossed over his chest as he looked over the evidence of death in the room. Catching his eye, John stared back at him, frowning. Sherlock jerked his head at the dead man on the floor, and then flicked his eyes to the body on the bed. John cocked an eyebrow before realization flashed over his face. 

Watching John, Sherlock saw something in him… _change._ It was a shift. He had no other way of describing it. One moment John stood there, casual and at ease, his face relaxed, looking almost bored as he surveyed the room. The next, his eyes went wide, mouth turning down at the corners, a look of sharp, bleeding empathy replacing the ambivalent mask. 

Sherlock stared at him. Lestrade caught his look and glanced over at John, spotting the anguished light in his eyes.

“Ah, sorry, John. Forgot you might not be so familiar with the shock of a crime scene.” Walking over, he clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Need some air? You can take a moment if you like.” 

“No, no, I’m fine,” John replied, shaking his head, regaining composure. “Just, you know—caught me off guard, I suppose.” 

Lestrade nodded, giving his shoulder a squeeze and turning back to Sherlock. “Anything standing out?”

The words failed to filter through Sherlock’s shock. As Lestrade blinked at him, pointing at the body on the bed, John grinned. His eyes, cobalt and ice, locked with Sherlock’s, almost dancing with a strange flash of amusement. 

Static roared in Sherlock’s ears, and he thought he might faint. Swaying on his feet, he put a hand out, spread fingers splaying against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, something taking shape behind his eyelids, pulsing against his temples.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice broke through the noise as he stepped forward.

“Are you okay?" His eyes flew open, thoughts scattering, to find John at his side with fingers pressed to his neck, as if feeling for a pulse. Sherlock stared down at him. The grin was gone, replaced only with concern. 

Brushing them both away from him, Sherlock hunched his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he snapped, crossing the room to study the body on the bed. He felt both Lestrade and John’s eyes on him, and clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the case.

He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, and his hands shook. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished writing my other multi-chapter fic, _combat fatigue_ , so I'm back to this one 👏🏻
> 
> I will hopefully have another chapter up tomorrow, depending on my work schedule. So no promises, but fingers crossed!


	6. See Myself Through Someone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _swallowed by a vicious, vengeful sea,  
>  darker days are raining over me.  
> in the deepest depths I lost myself,  
> I see myself through someone else_  
> 
> 
> **Black Water** \- _Of Monsters and Men_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self-induced vomiting and emotional/mental manipulation

It was a calculated risk, letting the mask slip long enough for Sherlock to notice. John had not expected such a breathtaking response. Still, given Sherlock’s apparent penchant for the dramatic, John was not entirely surprised. 

Sherlock moved back to the body on the bed, John’s proud display, and John noticed the tremour in the detective’s hands as he pulled on new gloves. Affecting a mild frown of concern, the bleeding heart of a kind man, he raised his brows in a silent query when Sherlock darted a glance at him. He looked away as soon as their eyes met, staring back down at James, and John resisted a smile. 

As much as he liked to play with his prey, he couldn’t afford to be caught. Not yet. Not until he reeled Sherlock in. A little closer, a little deeper. 

He watched Sherlock like a hawk as the detective prowled the crime scene. The momentary shock seemed to slip away, hunched shoulders straightening while Sherlock analyzed the bodies. He spoke in quick, clipped sentences, sharp fragments of observations. At John’s side, Lestrade muttered to himself as he scribbled frantic notes, looking annoyed as he tried to parse through Sherlock’s cryptic leaps and bounds of deduction. 

Listening to Sherlock lay out the crime scene, it almost sounded like he had been there himself. John noticed the subtle clench and release of Sherlock’s hands at his sides as he circled the dead man on the floor, and the faint flush rising over his neck, into his face. He almost looked… _aroused._ Like he was enjoying it.

John’s mind flashed back to the sergeant at the front of the motel, and how she had called Sherlock _‘freak.’_ The moniker made more sense now, seeing Sherlock in action. Rather than inspire the same disgust in John that it seemed to in the policewoman, it made John ache with want. 

Something shifted in his head, the rough edges of his plan, changing and reforming. He still burned for destruction, in any form and any guise. But perhaps mutually assured destruction held more pull than simply tearing Sherlock apart. Having watched Sherlock almost come undone with a well-timed slip and a private grin, John needed a real challenge.

Corruption. 

The evidence was there—potential and possibility. It was in Sherlock’s glittering eyes as he stalked through the room, picking invisible evidence seemingly from the very air. His calm, slick way of speaking as he outlined John’s evening in vivid detail took John’s breath away. He looked predatory, sharp face all pale skin and vibrant, verdant eyes.

John watched Sherlock use a pen to lift the edge of James’ jeans, face twisting in a grimace as he found the mess in his pants. 

_Interesting._

Not a single reaction to the gore and death, but bring him near anything sexual, and the detective cringes. Was it disgust? Did it make him uncomfortable? Was it borne from a lack of experience or a general disdain for the entire area? Sex wasn’t so far from murder, at least for John. The actions bordered the same razor-edge precipice of ecstasy and climax in his mind. He wondered if Sherlock might be the same, balanced on that hairline fracture between enjoying the chase and wanting to join in. John’s hands twitched at his sides, longing for answers.

“Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock’s smooth, rumbling baritone broke into his thoughts. Lifting his head, John looked up to find the detective standing close, holding out a pair of clean gloves. His face was flushed, eyes glittering, full lips parted. John imagined what that mouth might taste like, and took great care to brush their fingers together when he reached out to take the gloves. 

“Where do you want me?” John asked, voice pitched low. He was not talking about the case, and Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. Something flickered in his eyes, and he swallowed. It was loud, visible, and John let his lips curve into a slick smile at the sound. 

Lestrade’s head turned, looking over the two of them, eyes narrowed. Sherlock’s attention skimmed away, to the DI, before he looked back to John. 

“On the floor,” he replied, the words breathy before he wrenched his gaze away to gesture at the body at their feet. 

_On your knees._

The unspoken hovered at the back of John’s throat—and maybe between them—and John knelt down beside the dead man on the carpet. He felt Sherlock’s stare on his back as he bent over the body, gripping the face and tilting the head back and forth. Putting on a show. 

Sitting back on his haunches, he looked up at the two men standing over him. He glanced at Lestrade before locking eyes with Sherlock. The detective didn’t look away, staring back at John with an inscrutable look on his face. 

“Definitely asphyxiation,” John said, refusing to break eye contact. “The head injury is rather superficial. Perhaps enough to give someone a concussion, but not enough to kill them. Don’t think there’s enough blood loss for it to have been hypovolemia.” He turned toward the body, stroking a gloved finger over the distended vertebra at the base of the neck. “He was probably aware enough to understand his lungs were paralyzed, but with the neural connection severed, I doubt he felt much.” John looked back up at Sherlock, gauging his reaction to the diagnosis. He stared down at John, lips parted, colour high on his cheeks. 

John wondered what it would be like to touch those cheekbones with his tongue. Were they really as sharp as they looked? He wondered if he could bite through the skin to taste one. Arousal burned in his stomach, and he clamped his teeth down hard on his bottom lip, tamping it down. A grin was one thing. Sprouting a full, trouser-tenting hard-on was a little too obvious. 

“And the—” Sherlock’s voice emerged rough, catching in his mouth. He cleared his throat, waving at James’ corpse. “And the body on the bed?” he finished, eyes sweeping over John’s face. 

John rose, the action bringing them almost face to face. He paused, letting his breath waft out over Sherlock’s neck, before turning and approaching the bed. His eyes flicked over James’ ashen features, and he swallowed back a rising thrill at being here, among the evidence of his own design. He made a show of tilting the young man’s head back, studying the dark bruises curving along the neck. Ran the tip of his finger over the thick, congealed blood and plasma oozing from the scythe carved into James’ shoulder. Felt his breathing stutter and resisted the urge to press his mouth to the mark. Closing his eyes, John forced the trembling excitement down. Inspiration struck, and he arranged his face into an anguished expression, eyes wincing and mouth a tight line. When he turned around, Lestrade looked at him with a sharp stare.

Sherlock’s head jerked up, upper lip curling back over his teeth in a grimace at the display of emotional pain on John’s face.

“Sorry,” John muttered, walking quickly away from the bed, forcing his legs to stumble as he neared the two men. “I think—I might be sick.” He took care to stagger close to Sherlock, knuckles brushing his hip, before covering his mouth and affecting a loose-limbed, wobbling lurch through the door. He moved down the hall, breathing in short, fast bursts until his face turned red, tripping out the main entrance to the bushes outside. He heard footsteps behind him and bent at the waist, pushing two fingers down his throat under the guise of covering his mouth. 

By the time Sherlock appeared at his side, John was retching into a swath of stumpy bushes, made bare by the chill November weather. He coughed, spitting stomach acid onto dark soil and thin, spindly branches. He sensed, rather than saw, Sherlock’s hand hovering over his curved back, hesitating. 

John forced a groan past his burning throat, squeezing his eyes shut as he curled into himself. Fingers brushed the nape of his neck, fleeting but there, and John turned to look up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing spittle over his lips and chin. 

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as they settled on his face, and John knew he looked the mess he intended, the violent gagging having brought tears to his eyes. He felt the damp clumping of his eyelashes when he blinked, slow, and forced a strangled, choking sound past his lips.

“Sorry,” he rasped, using his sleeve to wipe his face. “I don’t—usually I’m not so—” he bit off his own words, pausing to swallow a fake sob. “I just—it made me think of Sarah, and I…” John let the sentence trail off and wrapped an arm across his stomach, making himself small as a cold wind blew between them. It tangled through Sherlock’s curls, bringing a flush to his face. Tensing his muscles, John forced himself to shiver and tremble, generating a pitiable mannerism. Watching Sherlock’s face, he caught a faint flicker of disgust in his eyes and revelled in the reality of it. 

Sherlock thought him wretched, beyond pathetic. The detective retracted his fingers from John’s neck with a jerky shift of his arm, shoving the hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. John grinned inwardly as he recognized a complete unwillingness to comfort someone caught in the throes of grief. At his flat, when Sherlock and DI Lestrade first paid him a visit, John had wondered at Sherlock’s curt behaviour. Agonized over whether or not it was driven by a lack of social awareness, or borne from a deep disdain for sentimental displays. 

Seeing the revulsion in Sherlock’s face as John scrubbed at his red-rimmed eyes, he had his answer. 

“Sorry,” John repeated, making his voice emerge as a broken whisper. Sherlock shifted on his feet, eyes skating away as his jaw tensed. His attempt to school his irritation away was palpable, and John wanted to sink his teeth into his chest, just to see how dark the heart underneath might be. He dug his hands into fists at his sides, then released, letting his shoulders slump, head bowed.

“It’s, ah… all right.” Sherlock’s reply was monotone, punctuated with an awkward pat on John’s arm. “Maybe you—why don’t you stay out here while we finish up, then?” 

There was the disgust again, thinly veiled under the forced words. John bit his lip to keep from smirking, wearily nodding his head.

“Okay,” he said, voice soft and small. He sank down to sit on the concrete retaining wall around the mostly dead garden, looking up at Sherlock with grateful eyes and a trembling mouth. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock nodded at the whisper and swept away, walking fast, as if seeking to put as much space between them as quickly as possible. John watched him go, disappearing down the hallway. Sitting back, he peeled off the gloves and tossed them into the bushes. Looking up, he saw the sergeant from earlier watching him, eyes narrowed. John blinked rapidly, giving her a clueless, pathetic grimace until she looked away. 

Sitting on the cold concrete, the air chill on his skin, John stared down at his hands. Part of his focus remained on appearing desolate and small, while the rest combed through his interactions with Sherlock, trying to develop a cohesive plan. 

He still wanted him. That had not changed. But the nature of the want had shifted, becoming less about physical destruction and more about _ownership_. John had initially believed Sherlock incorruptible. A man with a strong moral compass, a likely predilection for justice. Why else would he help the bumbling police force to solve the cases they couldn’t hope to crack?

Watching him in action, John discovered another answer. 

Because he _liked it_. Not necessarily the crimes themselves, but the puzzle, the solve. The game of it. But the crime scenes didn’t exist in a vacuum, which meant Sherlock must condone the violence, the creation of the final product. Like an admirer, similar to those who fawned over and idolized serial killers, but from an entirely new angle. 

Identifying the fervour with which Sherlock spouted deductions and observations pointed to the habits of a show-off—to someone who craved recognition. Praise. They were similar in that way, though John was forced to seek his admiration in anonymity, while Sherlock could strut before the police themselves and receive accolade. 

Such a dark proclivity could hardly endear Sherlock to those who _did_ live by a code of good honour, John realized. He looked up to find the policewoman from earlier approaching him.

She had called Sherlock a freak. Given the way Sherlock seemed to accept the insult without pause, it could not have been the first time. There was an air of division here, one John imagined he could widen if he knew where to grab and how to rip. 

“You okay?” the officer asked, stopping in front of him. John looked up into her wary face, and he bit his bottom lip until it turned white.

“I’m…better. I guess.” Adding the last as an afterthought, he let out a long, shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in. John pushed his lips into a tenuous smile, unstable and uncertain. “Thanks.” 

The sergeant nodded, pausing before she held out a hand. “Sally Donovan,” she said, watching his face as John shook her hand.

“John,” he replied, releasing her hand with a more confident smile. He made sure to maintain a faint waver in his voice as he asked, “You work with Sherlock?”

Donovan snorted, folding her arms over her chest, her disdain for the detective clear in her body language. “I wouldn’t say we ‘work together,’” she corrected, voice as stiff as her back. “He’s _not_ one of us.”

John sat up straighter, tilting his head to the side in a curious look. “He said he was a consultant…?” He let his voice trail off, watching Donovan’s face closely. Her nostrils flared, and she shook out her thick hair.

“Yeah—he’s a _consulting detective_.” She flicked at her sleeve, eyes hard and dark. “Invented the job, apparently.” Looking back to John, her face hardened. “You know why he’s here?” John shook his head, and she went on, lips curving in a humourless smile. “He likes it—I think he gets off on it. The more messed up the crime, the more excited he gets.” She stared down at her feet, mouth a hard, thin line. “Mark my words, John—one day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.” 

John controlled his face, keeping his expression neutral as he frowned. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, excitement pulsing through his veins, a heady tingle shooting into the tips of his fingers. “Ah, you—you really think so?” he asked, pausing to catch his breath as a wave of anticipation swept over him, making the air snag in his lungs. 

“Mark my words,” Donovan repeated, words grim and final. Her eyes flicked over his head, and John turned to find Sherlock approaching, Lestrade on his heels. John rose to his feet.

“…should interview the family members of the other victims,” Sherlock was saying, John catching the end of the sentence as he went on, “And I want a full-body examination done after the autopsy. He changed his pattern, and I want to know why.”

“You don’t have any ideas?” Lestrade asked, stopping as they reached John and Donovan.

Sherlock was silent, looking at his hands. His eyes flickered to John, then away, back to Lestrade’s face. “I can’t be the only one who gets bored,” he said.

Lestrade let out a loud sigh as Donovan flinched. Leaning toward John, she said, “See? Gets off on it.” Her voice was pitched low, but not enough that Sherlock didn’t hear. His head whipped around, but he looked at John again, rather than Sally.

John held his stare, face empty of any emotion, before turning to Sally.

“Right. Goodbye, Sergeant,” he replied, offering a hand that she shook, casting him a confused look. John tightened his fingers, catching the subtle pain that flickered over her face and pasted a wide smile onto his lips when she blinked at him. He could see the doubt in her eyes and turned to Sherlock before she could comment. “All done?” he asked, letting the smile mellow as he softened his eyes. He beamed adoration into the detective’s face, and Sherlock’s pale cheeks tinted a faint pink that made John suck in a breath.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied cautiously. “Are you—feeling better?” He paused to clear his throat before finishing the question. 

“Much,” John said, the smile widening at Sherlock’s apparent discomfort. Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between John’s. Whatever he saw there, it seemed to bring him to a decision.

“Lunch?” he asked, ignoring Lestrade’s incredulous stare.

“Starving,” John breathed, noting the way Sherlock’s face flushed even darker.

“Alright.” Sherlock gestured, and John fell into step with him as they walked toward the street, Sherlock fidgeting with his scarf as he pulled it around his neck. While he hailed a cab, John turned to look back, catching Donovan watching them. 

John shot her a grin, sliding into the cab behind Sherlock as it pulled up to the curb. 


	7. Vicariously, I Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I need to watch things die,  
>  from a good safe distance.  
> vicariously, I live  
> while the whole world dies.  
> you all feel the same, so  
> why can't we just admit it?_
> 
> _credulous at best -  
>  your desire to believe in  
> angels in the hearts of men._
> 
> _the universe is hostile,  
>  so impersonal.  
> devour to survive, so it is  
> so it's always been._
> 
> _we all feed on tragedy:  
>  it's like blood to a vampire.  
> vicariously, I live  
> while the whole world dies -_
> 
> _much better you than I_
> 
> Vicarious **\- Tool**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made the dialogue incorrect on purpose. Close to that of the show, but not exactly.

The cab ride was quiet. Caught up in thoughts of the case, Sherlock stared out the window, eyes unfocused as he processed information. John shifted until Sherlock turned to find the other man watching him. 

“What?” The words emerged harsher than intended. John’s eyes tightened at the corners, a faint expression that was less of a wince and more of a suppressed flash of anger. For the first time since witnessing John’s brief ambivalence at the crime scene, Sherlock focused his full attention on him.

“Nothing,” John replied. “Just thought you said something about making it up to me, for having been a right prick.” 

“I don’t believe I ever actually said any such thing.” Sherlock looked out the window again, mouth tense as he clasped his hands together.

“Hm.” Stretching out his legs, John folded his arms behind his head. “I suppose not.” 

Sherlock glowered at the passing scenery, eyes narrowed. “Lunch is on me,” he snapped, catching movement from the corner of his eye as John’s head tilted toward him.

“That your way of apologizing, then?” 

A long pause stretched out, broken by Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath. “Something like that.” His eyes flickered to John. When he found him staring with a slight smile, Sherlock looked away again. 

There was something… _off_ about John. He had reacted strangely at the crime scene, in several ways Sherlock had not anticipated. The cold, competent medical examination was expected. John’s strange grin, a look just for Sherlock—before he had dropped into what Sherlock had initially thought to be a falsified reaction of anguished empathy—was not. The change had been abrupt and disturbing, a stark opposite to the dead-eyed examination of the room moments before. After John seemed to gather himself, he had then fallen to pieces. Retching and nearly collapsing in his desperate need to escape a sudden reminder of Sarah’s own murder, personified by the dead body of the young man on the bed.

It was baffling. Complicated and off-putting in a way Sherlock found himself struggling to dissect or understand. Add to that, John’s strangely pendulous emotional displays the moment of charged energy between them. John’s breathy, _where do you want me_ , and Sherlock felt a wave of frustrated confusion wash over him. 

But was the display intentional? An uncertain reaction to a strange new situation? Or was John like him: intrigued by the dark potential of The Game, The Work, only less willing to embrace his interest? Sherlock had long given up the pretence of covering up his own fascination with murder and gore in favour of a sharper, more directed focus in his analysis of crime scenes. 

If John was similarly drawn to the puzzle, just as Sherlock was, perhaps he still struggled—continued to hide his interest from others.

Maybe they were the same. 

After all, as Sherlock had told Lestrade, he couldn't be the only one who got bored. 

Peering at John from the corner of his eye, Sherlock studied his face in profile. He looked like a bland, every-man, hands settled in his lap, shoulders resting against the backing of the seat while London passed them by.

He was _ordinary._

At first glance, John Watson was an unpresuming man, all too easy to write off. But a closer look revealed the strength of his hands, the steel beneath his spine, the hard, sharp light in his bottomless eyes. 

Teeth indented against his bottom lip, Sherlock tried to make sense of it. Of the puzzle-piece man at his side, and the conflicting, metamorphizing changes of emotion displayed by John at the crime scene. 

The cab pulled up to the curb, the driver turning to reach for his fare.

“I’ve got it.” John’s hand shot out before Sherlock could retrieve his wallet, passing several banknotes to the cabbie. Declining to comment, Sherlock slid out, hovering on the sidewalk as he watched John exit the cab, striding toward him with a brow raised. There was a silent question in the expression, one Sherlock ignored in favour of turning on his heel, stalking into the restaurant. John followed, a soft laugh drifting after Sherlock’s retreating figure.

Sherlock had sensed a slight attempt of imbalance in the offering—a strange power play he was not willing to engage with. 

John following, he marched through the restaurant to a table by the window, dropping into a seat to stare out the window. Jaw clenched, Sherlock refused to acknowledge John’s presence when he slipped onto the bench in front of the window. Silence stretched out, John’s fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm against the tabletop. Biting his lip, Sherlock struggled with the urge to demand he stop. The noise rippled over his skin like nails on a chalkboard, scraping at taut nerves.

His lips parted, an angry snarl caught in his throat, just as John stopped, flipping open the menu. Sherlock studied him, using the guise of John reading the selections to hide his analysis. John’s lips twitched, and his eyes flicked to Sherlock’s, a knowing look on his face. Jaw tense, teeth grinding together, Sherlock opened his mouth when an older, portly man stepped to the table. He offered a wide grin and a pitcher of cold water, and Sherlock swallowed the ire crawling up his throat.

“Sherlock!” The man’s greeting was enthusiastic, and he dropped a firm grip upon Sherlock’s shoulder as he gave him a shake. “Always so good to see you!” 

“Hello, Angelo,” Sherlock muttered, trying to shrug Angelo’s hands off to no avail. John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock before turning to look up at the friendly man.

“This man is my hero, you know,” Angelo declared, coaxing an amused smile to John’s face as Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “Stopped me going to prison—cleared my name!”

“Somewhat,” Sherlock muttered, finally succeeding in escaping the man’s fervent grasp. Looking at John, he tilted his chin and explained, “I helped Angelo avoid a murder charge by proving he was jacking cars somewhere else when the murder occurred.” 

John’s face was unreadable. His eyes flickered from Sherlock to Angelo before settling to the menu. “Fascinating.” There was an edge to his voice that Sherlock couldn’t discern, and he felt another wave of confusion as Angelo broke into the moment once more.

“Anything on the menu for you and your date!” The words were loud, and Sherlock winced. John continued to look down at the menu, one brow cocked.

“Not his date,” he said, tone unperturbed despite the denial.

“I’ll get a candle for the table—more romantic.” Angelo’s brows wiggled, and he tossed out a suggestive wink.

“Not his date,” John repeated, sounding utterly unruffled by the entire scene.

Sherlock watched the man across from him, twitching when Angelo set the candle on the table. He took John’s order and disappeared, leaving them alone at last.

Tilting back into his chair, Sherlock crossed his legs, hands settled in his lap. Before he could begin to speak, John interrupted.

“Do you bring dates here often, then?” 

“Who said I brought dates here at all?” Sherlock replied, taken aback by the abrupt question. Brow quirked, John gestured to Angelo’s disappearing back.

“Seems fairly obvious.”

Sherlock’s lip curled in distaste. “No, I do not bring _dates_ here.”

John’s brow rose higher. “Oh? Have a girlfriend you bring then, I suppose?”

The curled lip straightened into a sneer. “Girlfriend?” Sherlock repeated. “Hardly my area.”

Leaning back in his seat, John picked at a thread on his shirt, looking uninterested in the entire conversation. “Boyfriend, then?” His eyes lifted, a faint glitter painting them a lighter shade, flashing azure. “Which is fine, by the way.”

Sherlock’s own eyes narrowed. “I know it’s fine,” he replied slowly, studying John’s unreadable face. “No, I do not have a boyfriend.”

John’s expression shifted, mouth tilting in a crooked grin. It looked both innocent and predatory, a shark-like edge to the curve of his lips, teeth peeking out in a white gleam.

“Single then? Interesting.” He reclined, draping a hand over the back of the seat. “Like me. Good.”

Sherlock paused, fiddling with his fork. The words washed over him in a slick slide, falling into place.

Was John flirting with him? It seemed unlikely, but there was an underlying message to the casual words, and Sherlock was forcefully reminded of the tense energy that had passed between them at the crime scene.

_Where do you want me?_

_On the floor._

“Doctor Watson, are you asking me out?” Sherlock asked, failing to keep an incredulous edge from his voice.

John looked amused. “No,” he clarified. “I’m not asking you out.” Eyebrows raised, he reached out, brushing the back of Sherlock’s knuckles with his fingertips. “Unless you want me to?”

The touch was like fire. Sherlock glared down at their hands, ducking his head to hide the flush rising in his face. Pulling his arm back, he slipped free of John’s grasp. 

“You said you might be able to help with the medical side of the case?” Sherlock changed the subject with abrupt words, sitting on his hands. John’s eyes flashed, amusement once more playing over his expressive face. 

“Well—I _was_ an army doctor. And I teach trauma triage.” He shrugged, the small smile falling away as the corners of his eyes tightened. “If I can help catch whoever did... _that_ to Sarah, then I thought I should at least offer my knowledge.” 

Sherlock sighed, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “We already have medical experts on the case, Doctor Watson,” he said curtly. “And, while not a licensed physician myself, I do possess rather extensive knowledge of medical process.” He expected John’s face to fall, for disappointment to pass over his features. Instead, John’s blue eyes sharpened, pupils contracting. He leaned across the table, making Sherlock jerk back instinctually at something he saw in those eyes.

“That’s very interesting,” John replied, speaking with a casual ease that made the hair stand up on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Is it?” he asked, frowning. “How so?”

“Well, seeing as you’re the one who invited me to the crime scene today, where you asked for my professional opinion, I find it interesting to hear you now say you don’t need me. And…” John’s hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white with the force. “I thought I told you to call me John, Mr. Holmes,” John's voice was soft, sleek, the corner of his mouth curving into a sharp smile as his fingers drummed against the tabletop. Sherlock blinked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Right. Sorry... John.” Sherlock cleared his throat and paused, considering. “And, if you must insist on first names, then please—call me Sherlock.” After a moment of hesitation, he chose not to reply to the comment regarding his inviting John to the crime scene. It felt too much like bait, and he refused to bite.

John smiled again. The expression was voracious, shifting the lines of his plain face into something new—something harder, sharper. As Sherlock stared, the look softened into a mellow expression. Kind eyes and a warm gaze.

“Wonderful,” John said, voice pitched low. “... _Sherlock.”_ The hard edge, though gone from his face, lingered in the words. 

The change was disturbing. Sherlock couldn’t get the image of John looking like he wanted to devour him out of his head, despite the calm openness of his face now. 

“So—find anything interesting at the crime scene?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

Lifting his glass, John watched him from over the rim. “Didn’t you ask me to come so I could help?” Setting the water down, his chin lifted. “Hard to do if I’m not sure of the facts.”

“Oh?” Untangling his hands, Sherlock gripped the edge of the table. “Just what are you unsure about, Doctor W—John?” 

“I wasn’t exactly present for most of it, was I?” John sounded amused, making Sherlock bite back the interrogative words in his mouth.

“Right, of course. Must have been, ah, _difficult_ for you, seeing something that reminded you of Sarah. Must have been quite a shock.” Sherlock’s said lightly, his nails digging into the table cloth, tendons standing out in his forearm. John’s eyes flickered to his hand and back to his face, tongue sweeping out to trace along his bottom lip.

“Quite shocking, yes,” John replied. Despite his casual tone, something dark flashed in his eyes. Sherlock’s fingers tensed as John went on, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

 _And you haven’t answered mine._ The thought echoed in Sherlock’s head, but he didn’t give it voice. Instead, he smoothed the wrinkles he had pressed into the tablecloth, head tilted down, studying John from beneath lowered lashes.

“Well, aside from the obvious causes of death that you are already aware of, and the break in the Reaper’s patterns, there were several hints as to the killer’s personality.”

Leaning back in his chair, John folded his arms across his chest. “Such as?”

Finding those blue eyes riveted to his face, Sherlock pulled in a deep, sharp breath. Aside from Lestrade, it was rare for someone to request his deductions. Even more unusual for it to happen outside of a crime scene. John’s attention spoke of attentive, thrumming energy, and Sherlock struggled not to react to the pull of John’s regard. 

“He is a precise man, our killer,” Sherlock began, speaking slowly, gaining speed as he went on, ramping up. “He kills without remorse, without messy emotions. But I believe he has a code. His victims, those he strangles, are the epicentre of his displays. They are his focus. The second man at the scene, the employee—his death was one of necessity. He interrupted and had to be removed. It was likely a quick decision, not one muddled with emotional consideration. As clean a death as he could offer in a last-minute murder, nothing flashy. He only kills outside his targets as needed, not carelessly, only when absolutely necessary. I think he is a man of patterns.” Tapping a finger against his lip, Sherlock noted the way John watched the action hungrily. Suppressing an unexpected shiver, Sherlock continued, “The motel employee’s death tells us a bit more. Severing the spinal cord is not as easy as it looks on tv. It takes strength and knowledge. So he’s strong, this Reaper. Strong, and educated in anatomy.” He paused to pull in another breath, “He knew what he was doing, and he made sure to do it right the first time. No repeats, no margin for error.”

John watched with darkened eyes, lips parted, spine stiff, his face alight with fascination, riveted on every word as it dropped from Sherlock’s mouth. The attention was electrifying. “You speak as if you admire him,” John noted, and Sherlock fixed him with a hard look.

“A man of such painstaking, practiced control?” Sherlock studied John’s face, tracing the flick of his tongue over his lips with rapt eyes. “There is little I find more intriguing.” Sherlock clenched his twitching hands into fists, their eyes locked as he went on. “I think we are looking for a man with extensive medical knowledge and a history of violence.”

“A criminal?” John asked, tilting his head to thank Angelo as a large plate of pasta was set down in front of him. 

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock looked at the table cloth, feeling John’s sharp stare rake over his skin. “There are other paths in life that encourage a level of violence, even within legal, accepted careers, each outside of criminality.” His eyes darted up again, watching John twirl noodles onto his fork, gaze redirected for the moment. Sherlock felt a sharp pang of absence and pushed it aside.

“What kind of careers?”

“Oh, you know.” Sherlock waved a hand, voice even, “Police officers, professional athletes—primarily boxers or mixed martial art fighters, things like that.” He scraped a fingernail along the edge of his untouched water glass, studying John’s face.

“Soldiers?” 

Sherlock flinched, startled to be caught out so quickly. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Soldiers, too.”

“Some soldiers are more than that,” John went on, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth. “Peacekeepers, diplomats, politicians.” His lips twitched as if resisting the urge to laugh. “Doctors, maybe.” 

Sherlock watched John’s jaw move as he chewed, Adam’s apple shifting when he swallowed. “They are,” he agreed. Leaning forward, Sherlock cradled his chin in one palm, calculating. “I would say the Grim Reaper is likely a man of medical background, given the precise nature of his kills, and his skill with a scalpel.” 

John swallowed another mouthful of pasta. Dabbing at his lips with a napkin, he tilted his head, a small smile creasing his face. “Seems plausible.” Reaching for his water, he took a sip. As the glass connected with the table, he asked, “Anything else?”

Sherlock held John’s gaze, feeling his skin burn as if his nerves had been set alight.

“I found a scalpel in the trash.”

John’s smile widened, and he looked genuinely pleased. “Did you? How lucky. I imagine the police are thrilled to have that.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied, voice low. “Or they would be, if they knew.” His hand slipped into his pocket, finger tracing a sharp metal edge. John’s dark eyes followed the movement, and his smile lingered, sharp and close-mouthed.

“Brilliant,” he breathed, making Sherlock jerk in his chair.

“Excuse me?”

Leaning forward, John offered a wolfish grin. “You heard me.” 

Sherlock stared at him, back pressed into the chair, chin tilted down. His posture was rigid, defensive, the blade of the scalpel caressing the curve of his thumb before he retracted his hand. Settling it once more in his lap, he eased forward, mouth open as the air caught in his throat. “You think so?”

John’s teeth pressed against his bottom lip, deforming the curve of his smile. “Oh god, yes.” 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sitting in his chair, staring at the cold, empty mouth of the fireplace, Sherlock’s breath flicked over his steepled fingertips. He replayed the conversation at Angelo’s over and over in his head, pressing it into the walls of his mind palace with crystalline focus. Closing his eyes, he let the familiar halls and corridors fall over him.

Feet whispering over the soft, red carpet, Sherlock trailed his hands along the wall, fingers catching in smooth wood edges. At the end of the hall was a door, black varnish a negative absence of colour that darkened as he drew nearer.

He pressed his palms to its surface, hesitation vibrating through his arms when he pushed it open, cold, stale air drifting outward.

In the middle, standing on a dark tiled floor, was John. 

Sherlock paced around him, hands folded behind his back. He studied the man at the center of his orbit, taking in every detail he had managed to press into his memory version of John.

“Who are you?” he asked, the heels of his shoes clicking against the hard floor, echoing back from the bare walls. 

“John Watson.”

The reply was flat, dead, inflectionless.

“What are you?”

“A doctor.” 

Something clattered against the floor, a metallic reverberation through the darker boundaries of the room. A scalpel skidded over the tile, settling at John’s feet. The edge flashed red in uneven light.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted, hands twitching at his sides. “What else?”

“Teacher.”

A hard, discordant noise shredded the air. Nails on a chalkboard. A strangled, annoyed sound slipped from Sherlock’s lips. “What _else?_ ”

“Soldier.” John’s head lifted. His body, clad in thick, heavy camo, compact with tense muscle, tightened. A rifle sat comfortably in his hands, almost like an extension of his arms.

“You _were_ a soldier.” Sherlock waved his hand, the motion impatient and jerky. The uniform dissolved, drifting and fading into the stagnant air like sand in the wind. John’s arms fell back to his side, once more clad in a light button-up and blue jeans. “What _are_ you?” Sherlock moved in a prowling motion, hands clenched.

“I’m John Watson.” The reply was instant, tearing a growl from Sherlock’s lungs as he whirled, moving in the opposite direction. His footsteps blurred over the dusty floor, obliterating his own path. 

“Are you the Reaper?”

John’s head tilted, eyes flashing. His mouth parted, teeth peeking from behind thin, pink lips. Sherlock halted, stopping in front of the man as John looked up at him. He was close enough to feel John’s breath, hot on his skin.

“You tell me,” John said. 

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this update was so long in coming. I've been sick, and busy with school. I was also feeling pretty annoyed about fighting with people over this damn story. if you can't be chill about not liking my writing/story/characters, I'm just not gonna engage with you anymore. I want to see this story through, and I'm done battling people. I'm already super hypercritical of my writing without the negative comments, so I really don't feel the need to reply to frustratingly unhelpful feedback.
> 
> **I don't wanna sound like a total ass, but if ya don't like it, don't read it.**
> 
> as always, thanks to anyone who takes the time to read my stuff. even if you're not a fan, I still appreciate your time and attention (even if I don't appreciate some of the comments).
> 
> love ya, kbye (until the next update, at least) ✌🏻


	8. Smile and Drop the Cliché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _clever got me this far,  
>  then tricky got me in.  
> eye on what I'm after—  
> I don't need another friend._
> 
> _smile and drop the cliché.  
>  'til you think I'm listening.  
> take just what I came for,  
> then I'm out the door again_
> 
> **_The Package_ – A Perfect Circle**

**December 1**

Sherlock intrigued him. Kept him on his toes. Their interactions at the restaurant had John on edge, and he ached for the prowl. The thud of life under his thumbs. 

There was a mutual attraction present, of that he was certain. Had felt it between them like a siren call, forcing John to lock his fingers on the table edge, resisting the urge to pounce. 

The fact Sherlock had hidden the scalpel, secreting it away in the pocket of his coat and keeping it from the police…the reality of it repeated through John’s head. Dominated his thoughts. Made his hands clench with fascinated, yearning hunger. As for what it meant, the exact connotations of that decision, John was eager to discern. Initially, it had presented as a potential weapon, Sherlock withdrawing and defensive. Anticipating violence, John had received interest instead—avid intrigue as Sherlock leaned over the table, eyes wide and dark.

Self-control and rigid military training had been the only things that kept John from devouring him. 

After Angelo interrupted them again, whisking away John’s empty plate, Sherlock had all but forced John into a cab, choosing to walk home himself. Now, splayed across the tangled sheets of his own bed, face flushed as he came down from a climax pursued with thoughts of Sherlock’s tempted face, John recalled that moment. Sherlock leaning after him as John slipped into the cab, his skin tinged pink, lips parted, yearning written across his face.

For one stunning, crystalline moment, John had believed it was all over, and Sherlock had figured it out. It seemed impossible to believe otherwise, with their hushed discussion of the Grim Reaper’s character. 

_ I think we are looking for a man with extensive medical knowledge and a history of violence _ .

_ Soldiers? _

If Sherlock thought John and the Reaper were one and the same, his mention of the scalpel should have been a threat. A not so subtle, “ _I see you.”_ But Sherlock let him go. Had all but drooled over John with admiration in his mouth. 

_ A man of such painstaking, practiced control? There is little I find more intriguing. _

A shiver climbed up his spine, making John’s skin crawl as he sat up, stretched his neck from side to side, the tendons creaking. Fingers fisted in the rumpled bedding, threads catching at the edges of a jagged nail, he stared into the slowly lightening bedroom.

Eyes unfocused, he licked his lips.

Now, more than ever, the possibility that Sherlock could be corrupted—that _John_ could shift him to a darker path—seemed within reach. If he played his cards right, and resisted the urge for chaos growling deep in his stomach, it could be done.

His phone buzzed, jittering against the bedside table. Snatching it up, John read the text preview, face darkening when he saw Sherlock’s name.

_ Morgue 11:30. James Phillimore autopsy. SH _

Throwing the covers off, tossing a balled-up tissue into the trash, John swung out of bed.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Passing through the doors into the morgue, John took in the group assembled around a stainless steel gurney: Molly, DI Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, and Sherlock, who looked up at John’s approach. His eyes were sharp, considering, sweeping over John’s neat form and casually-styled hair. 

Idly, John wondered if Sherlock could read the fact of the feverish wanking his lithe form had inspired in John’s waking minutes. If it were written upon his very skin. Biting back a smile, he stopped across the table from the detective. At his side, Donovan shifted, darting him a quick look. Catching it from the corner of his eye, John ignored her, tilting his head to look up at Sherlock over the sheet-draped form on the gurney.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized, fixing a wry smile on his face. “Traffic.”

Sherlock studied him, hand twitching against his leg. A mild flash of colour suffused his face, sitting high on the severe jut of his cheekbones. 

“No apology necessary, Doc— _John_.” The name was spoken with a faint quiver at the end, one John could not fail to miss. He resisted another smile and jerked his chin toward the shrouded body. 

“Waited for me?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched with a blunt-edged smile that kept his teeth trapped behind tense lips. “Of course.” Dragging his eyes away from John’s face, he nodded to Molly. “Let’s take a look.”

The sheet was pulled back, and John came face to face with James for the third time in as many days. He resisted the urge to reach out and press a finger to the slack, greying flesh. His tongue traced over his bottom lip.

Sherlock’s eyes burned on his skin.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Watching Sherlock examine the body was riveting. He and Molly donned gloves, Sherlock shoving a pair John’s way. Their fingers brushed as he took them, a tremour rippling through Sherlock at the contact that John noticed and treasured. 

The detective refused to look at him, instead descending upon the dead man. He had discarded his large coat and suit jacket, unbuttoning the cuffs of a tight dress shirt. Sleeves folded neatly up to his elbows, Sherlock bent over the gurney, watching with intense focus as Molly began the clean, precise lines of a Y-incision with a clean scalpel. 

John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s coat, wondering if a similar blade still rested deep in one of the pockets. When he turned, Sherlock was watching him, brow furrowed, lips parted. The flush on his cheeks deepened when their eyes met, and he looked back to the body. John could pinpoint when his focus narrowed, pupils widening and constricting as Sherlock shifted closer, watching Molly pull back the flaps of skin on James’ chest. 

Tuned out, only distantly listening to Sherlock’s responses to Molly’s expert dialogue outlining the young man’s death, John pretended to study the body while watching Sherlock. His posture was tense, thrumming with barely restrained energy. He looked like a man on the edge—a tightly coiled spring set to release. As soon as Molly finished with her initial notes, stepping back to give Sherlock space, the detective pounced. 

The pent-up energy rippled over his form, straightening his back and tensing his hands. His brows dropped, eyes darkening, and he prowled around the still figure with the tip of his tongue pressed to the sleek curve of his bottom lip. 

The sight of that slick, pink flesh took John’s breath away, and he shifted, trying to hide the sudden tightness in his jeans. He bit into his own lip to suppress a possessive flash, eyes half-open, eyelids heavy.

“Everything is consistent with the previous victims,” Lestrade said, speaking up suddenly and breaking into the static thrum in the air. John shot him a look, barely managing to hide the fury in his face at the interruption as Sherlock raised his head. “Strangulation without signs of a struggle. And, as noted at the crime scene, consensual intercourse occurred.”

“Non-penetrative,” Sherlock replied, nodding his head in agreement. He smoothed a hand along the edge of the cold metal table, eyes trailing over the slack lines of the greyed face. “James Phillimore, early-20s. Student at Roland Kerr Further Education College. Two living parents, Dave and Carmen Phillimore. No known history of problematic drug use, but faint traces of ecstasy and marijuana found in his system.” Sherlock nodded to Molly, indicating the information came from tests she had run. “Nothing to indicate the killer would have given him the drugs, and since the previous victims had no such traces in their bloodwork, something we can rule out as part of the Reaper’s MO.” Tapping a finger on the gurney, nail clicking against the metal, he looked thoughtful. “The presence of these drugs suggests he was likely taken from a location where the use of such substances is common-place…” Bending, Sherlock smoothed a gloved hand along James’ chest, palm hovering just above his skin. 

Watching, John felt his breath catch as Sherlock let out a low huff, a subtle gasp of realization. 

_“Oh!”_ Grabbing James’ wrist, Sherlock tilted the arm around, dropping lower to squint at the back of the dead man’s hand. “There’s something…ink?” Brow furrowed, he angled the limb toward the bright overhead light. “A stamp of some kind?”

John swallowed a flood of adrenaline, stomach jolting with excitement as Sherlock beckoned the others forward. When John remained rooted in place, the detective looked over at him. “John?” The question was unspoken, and John let his feet carry him forward, sucking air into his lungs around an aborted breath. Shoulder brushing Sherlock’s arm, he bent to look at the offered hand, eyes narrowed.

Sure enough, there was a small, circular smudge of red ink on the back of James’ hand. 

“What do you think?” Sherlock’s words were a shallow breath against the side of his neck, and John tilted his head to find him inches away, eyes dark as his pupils dilated. John stared back at him, fighting the urge to lean forward and sink his teeth deep into the pouty curve of Sherlock’s lower lip. If he thought hard, he could almost taste the blood. Swallowing, John lifted his eyes back to Sherlock’s.

“Looks like a club stamp,” he replied, watching the subtle flicker of confusion pass over Sherlock’s face. “You know—” John’s mouth quirked. “For dancing? Drinking and drugs?” His voice dropped, excluding the others as they watched with curiousity. “Sex in bathroom stalls?” 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and he swayed, an unconscious movement bringing him closer. His eyes dropped to John’s mouth, lids heavy, the chimeric blue-green-grey irises dark. “I know what a club is,” he said, voice rough. John grinned as Sherlock’s fingers twitched, brushing the hem of John’s sleeve. 

“I’ll bet you do.” John’s reply was spoken like a promise, a husky murmur, as he watched Sherlock drift nearer, his breathing uneven. Grinning, John straightened up, leaving the detective to encounter cold, empty air. “Doesn’t look like it’s that old,” he said, looking at the three people standing around the still form. “Guessing that means he was at the club last night?” When he looked over at Sherlock, the detective was standing straight once more. There was an attempt at a blank mask on his face, but John saw the heavy flush beneath, and the look of caught-off-guard confusion in his eyes. 

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said, blinking rapidly as he avoided John’s gaze. “The ink has blurred, seeping into the first layer of the epidermis. Likely from sweat and the warmth of his body at the time.” He cleared his throat, a grinding noise that made John’s mouth twitch. “It is likely he was taken from there, the killer seeking him out in the club.” 

“You think he just went with him?” Lestrade asked. He was glancing between Sherlock and John, a faint tightness creasing the corners of his mouth. At his side, Donovan looked disgusted, shooting John a judgemental look that John bared his teeth at, barely mimicking anything like a grin. Molly looked uncomfortable, eyes flickering away from Sherlock, a hurt look hardening the edges of her face. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, cheeks and neck beginning to pale as the flush receded from his skin. “I think James Phillimore went with the killer to engage in consensual sex, and ended up murdered.” His lips twitched, a wry look in his eyes. “Probably more than he anticipated, I’m sure.”

John barely swallowed a laugh, making a harsh snorting noise instead. Donovan cast him another repulsed look, while Sherlock twitched toward him, amusement playing at the edge of his lips.

“We need to identify which club this stamp came from.” Pointing at the mark, Sherlock frowned. “Hopefully, the mark is unique to a specific location, and not some kind of generic stamp.” 

Molly tilted forward, seeming to swallow down her uncomfortable feelings. “Kind of looks like a T?” she said, voice lilting upward at the end in an unconscious question. 

“Likely specific, then.” Pulling out his phone, Sherlock snapped a few pictures of the stamp. Fingers flying over the keys, he spoke in rapid-fire bursts. “Once we’ve figured out what club the stamp belongs to, we will need to check it out. Maybe a stakeout, or some kind of undercover work.” Sending the text, he looked up from the phone, eyes sweeping over those gathered. His gaze did not linger, but John felt its presence like a flash burn on his skin. 

Lestrade groaned, rubbing an exhausted hand over his face. “It’ll take ages to figure out what club it is.” His sigh spoke of lacking sleep and too many late nights. “I guess I’d better get something organized.”

“No need,” Sherlock replied, brisk. “I’ve sent pictures of the stamp to several members of my homeless network. I expect we will have confirmation by the end of the day.” His phone dinged, and he frowned down at the screen, mouth tense. “Maybe by tomorrow,” he appended, clearly unimpressed with the response.

“You and your bloody homeless network,” Lestrade grumbled, turning to Donovan. “Well, we’ve got something for you in the meantime.” He took a file folder that the sergeant offered, retrieved from inside her jacket. Turning, he handed it to Sherlock. “I followed up with the families of the other victims like you asked. Some were unwilling to talk again, understandably.” Holding up a hand, the DI interrupted the annoyance evident in Sherlock’s face as he opened his mouth to reply. Settling back against a table, John folded his arms across his chest, watching Sherlock grimace and stay silent as Lestrade went on. “These murders are still very fresh, and people are recovering from the loss of their loved ones. We _will_ respect their wishes for space, though not necessarily indefinitely.” 

Sherlock’s teeth ground together, a sharp, angry noise in the cold air. “I doubt our killer is willing to extend the same courtesy to his future victims,” he snapped, and John felt a jolt of excitement at the faint yearning beneath the words.

Lestrade just shrugged. “Still, I’m standing firm on this one. We’ll have to make do with those who are willing.” 

“And?” Sherlock pressed, impatient. “ _Are_ there any willing family members?”

“I still haven’t heard back from a few—and some didn’t have much in the way of family, like Ella Thompson.” Reaching out, he tapped a finger on the file in Sherlock’s hand. “Johnathan Small’s mother, Madeline Small, has agreed to talk with us again.” 

The name scratched at the back of John’s mind, dredging up a sudden, incessant hum at the edge of his skull. Johnathan Small. The sixth murder linked to the Grim Reaper. The fourth victim he had strangled. Something similar to trepidation flickered through his brain, and John grit his teeth together, biting back the strange feeling, an uncommon emotion. There was something there, in Johnathan Small. Something Sherlock might notice. 

Shooting him a glance, John found the detective staring down at the folder, flipped open to an image of Small’s corpse. John’s mouth twitched, remembering the dead man’s gasp of pleasure and aborted struggle for air under John’s curled fingers. 

“When can I speak to her?” Sherlock’s question ripped him back to the present, and John gripped the edge of the table behind him, his breathing settling into a low, steady sigh.

“Tomorrow, around noon,” Lestrade answered, glancing at Donovan for clarification. “She’s agreed to a few hours at her house.” 

“Perfect,” Sherlock replied, closing the folder. “I’ll be at the station before then, we can go together.” 

Nodding, Lestrade sighed, rolling his shoulders. “I hope it helps—we need _something_ because this case is going nowhere.” 

Sherlock’s eyes shifted, darting to his coat before landing on John for a brief moment. When he looked back to Lestrade, John saw that his face was calm, composed. “Serial killers are tough,” he said, speaking in a slow, careful voice. “Have to wait for them to make a mistake.” 

“Can’t come soon enough,” Lestrade grumbled, pulling on his coat.

“Mhm.” Sherlock’s agreement was a quiet hum, sending tingles of heat through John’s arms, into the tips of his fingers when he found those eyes on him again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“We’re not going to look at the motel employee?” John asked, walking at Sherlock’s side as they left the morgue, their footsteps echoed back at them from the narrow hallway walls. Sherlock shook his head.

“No need. Not much of a mystery there.” Sherlock sighed, tapping a finger against the file in his left hand, checking the screen of his mobile in the other. John watched the frustration flickering over his face. 

“Nothing?”

“Not yet. Give it time.” 

Stepping into an elevator, Sherlock behind, John pressed the button for the main floor. As the doors slid shut, the lift rumbling into motion, he cast a sideways glance at the detective. “Confident they’ll figure it out, then?” At Sherlock’s look, he added, “This homeless network of yours?”

“They rarely fail me,” Sherlock replied, fingers twitching against the curve of his phone. “Just need to be patient.”

“Of course,” John said, watching the floors tick away before the elevator stopped with a loud ding, doors opening. As they stepped out, John dug his hands into his pockets. “So—what next?”

“There are two things we need to focus on,” Sherlock began, leading them through another narrow hallway. “First is locating the club and setting up some kind of undercover stakeout. If James Phillimore was targeted and retrieved from that location, the killer may hunt there again.” 

“You really think he would repeat a pattern?” John asked, biting back his amusement. Sherlock twitched, casting him a sharp look.

“I don’t know, but it’s possible.” His eyes narrowed and he stopped walking, reaching out to catch John’s arm. “Don’t you think?”

Looking up at him, John schooled his face into an open expression. “Does it matter what I think?”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Yes, it does.” 

Lifting a hand, John settled it on Sherlock’s sleeve, feeling the warmth and jut of his bony wrist underneath. “Sorry to tell you, but I don’t have all the answers,” he breathed, dropping his voice into a rough, coarse tone and watching Sherlock’s pupils dilate. 

Sherlock stared at him, the moment stretching out, hand quivering on John’s arm. When he finally stepped away, it was with a sharp movement, jacket torn from John’s grip. His face twisted, lines of angry confusion shadowing his expression. His breathing was uneven, and John flexed his fingers, casual, stretching out the knuckles. 

“What is the second thing?” he prompted, watching Sherlock regain his composure. The detective glared at the floor, the muscles in his jaw working.

“We interview Mrs. Small since she is currently the only family member willing to speak to us.”

“Us?” John asked, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock looked at him.

“Yes, John, us. I assumed we would both accompany Lestrade.”

“Assumptions are dangerous, Sherlock.” John studied his hands, tone light. 

A faint frown creased Sherlock’s brow. “You’re not coming?”

“Can’t,” John replied, shaking his head. “Got plans.” Sherlock’s face darkened, and he stepped forward, crowding into John’s space. John let him advance, moving back until his spine brushed the wall. Sherlock’s breathing was uneven and loud as he leaned forward, attempting to loom over John.

“What plans could possibly be more important than catching a serial killer?” The words were quiet, the ragged edges making them heavy in the charged space between them. Sherlock’s attempts at intimidation made John’s jaw clench, back straightening until his body stood at rigid attention, leaving scant inches of room between their bodies.

“Careful, Sherlock,” he replied, licking his bottom lip and watching Sherlock trace the movement with his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to give me the wrong idea.”

“What idea would that be?” Sherlock snapped, but there was an undercurrent in his voice, something almost fragile. Tentative and yearning. John’s mouth watered, and he let his hands rise, fingers settling on the thin, jutting hip bones of the man standing in front of him.

“That you want me all to yourself,” John murmured, digging his nails hard into the thick fabric of the jacket. The material was heavy enough to keep him from causing any real harm. Still, Sherlock’s breath stuttered, catching in his throat as his eyelids fluttered. 

As had happened in the morgue, Sherlock swayed closer, almost like he was drawn to something on John’s skin—a tug into orbit. “Are you offering advice on the matter?” he asked, watching John’s mouth as if hypnotized. There was a faint edge of panic in his eyes, even as arousal flashed across his face in a spreading, dim red flush. 

When John tilted forward and up, Sherlock automatically bent toward him, his breathing quickening. He shuddered when John’s tongue rasped over the curve of his neck, the flesh hot as blood rushed to the surface. His throat dipped over a hard swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing as his lips parted, the hint of a low, needy sound brushing the edge of his lips. 

“Just a warning,” John spoke in a clipped tone against Sherlock’s skin before giving a light shove of his hands, moving Sherlock backwards. The detective’s feet shifted, unsteady, and he righted himself with a bewildered look. When he looked down again, John made sure his expression was pleasant and smooth, with no hint of aggression lingering in his hard eyes. 

“I—” Sherlock began, pausing with a frown. “A…warning?” He appeared to struggle, voice rough despite an obvious attempt at apathy. His face was dark with the mottled afterimage of fading lust, and his mouth looked heavy. Repressing a quiver, John stepped around the wide-eyed detective, moving with quick steps.

“Let me know how it goes, all right?” Casting a grin over his shoulder, John strode away, leaving Sherlock flushed and aroused in the empty hallway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hella weird, and I didn't expect the end to happen. So, I mean, take it as you will.
> 
> Btw, I'm on Tumblr as _simplyclockwork_   
> Feel free to stop by and say hi!


	9. Run Through My Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _when we were in flames,  
>  I needed, I needed you  
> to run through my veins,   
> like disease, disease.  
> and now we are   
> strange, strangers_
> 
> **_Winter_ – Daughter**

Sherlock didn’t move, even after John’s footsteps had faded. Remaining where John left him, he stared at the floor, eyes unfocused, vision blurry. His breathing came in irregular, discordant gasps, hands twitching at his sides. 

The skin on his neck burned, still damp with John’s saliva, cooling as it dried. A quiver set up in his limbs, making its way through his body until Sherlock leaned forward to press his palms against the wall. Air caught in his throat, a choked gasp, and he clenched his eyes shut. Desperate, he tore through his head, searching for connections—for something to ground himself. 

Down the hall, the elevator dinged.

Lurching into an upright position, Sherlock straightened his coat. Fingers curling against his palms, he turned to watch Lestrade and Donovan exit the lift, speaking to one another in low voices. Before they noticed his presence, Sherlock pulled in a breath, regaining his composure. 

The mask slipped back into place just as Lestrade looked up, walking forward until he reached Sherlock. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, brows lifting. “Thought you’d have run off already.”

Smoothing his fingers down the lapels of the Belstaff, Sherlock lifted his chin. The panic from earlier, which had nearly incapacitated him, was ebbing away, leaving a faint buzz at the limits of his senses that set his teeth on edge. “Waited for you,” he replied, shaking the file in his hand. “Thought we could go over what to ask Mrs. Small tomorrow.” 

Lestrade looked surprised but nodded his acceptance. “All right. Need a lift to the station?” At Sherlock’s hesitation, the DI’s lips quirked. “Won’t make you ride in the back this time.” Donovan let out a low, dark laugh, which Sherlock tried to ignore. He only inclined his head in agreement, falling into step behind the officers as they led the way down the hall.

He felt hollow. The last dregs of anxiety seeped out of his body, leaving behind a sickening emptiness. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Listening to Lestrade drone on about Johnathan Small provided a suitable hum of background noise while Sherlock retreated to his mind palace. He had already scoured Small’s file, re-committing it to memory during the ride in the police cruiser. 

Now, staring at random, dangling strings hanging in the air around the familiar walls of his memories, Sherlock still could not find the connections. Hands scrabbling at a thick thread marked _Johnathan Small_ , he couldn’t locate its end, tangling the material around shaking fingers. 

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, blinking at Lestrade across the desk. The DI looked annoyed, brow furrowed. Shaking himself, Sherlock stretched out sore legs. “Yes, sorry. Thinking.”

Sighing, Lestrade jabbed a finger down at the file open between them. “Madeline Small has lost both of her sons.” He tapped the finger, fixing Sherlock with a narrow-eyed look. “I need you to _not_ be a jerk to her. She has been through enough, and we’re lucky she even agreed to another interview.”

“And the father?” Sherlock asked, squinting at the file. Lestrade made a frustrated noise at the lack of agreement from Sherlock but went on. 

“Works away most of the time. Businessman.” 

Sherlock pressed his fingertips and palms together, settling his hands below his chin as he leaned over the open folder. “I’m not confident speaking with Mrs. Small will be all that conducive to determining a lead, but I’m at a loss.” His lips twisted, bitter. “As much as I hate to admit it.” 

“You and me both,” Lestrade replied. His face was grim.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The afternoon dwindled into evening as Sherlock mounted the stairs to 221B. Exhaustion hung on his shoulders, weighed down his legs. Stepping into the sitting room, Sherlock stumbled to the fireplace, coaxing a flicker of heat from the gas setup. Wiping a hand over his face, he dropped across the couch, fatigue biting at his lungs with every breath. 

Typically, a case kept him above the needs of his body. Provided adrenaline that allowed him to forego food and sleep. But this time was different. The lack of leads was restricting, pulling him down like someone trying to swim in full clothing. He felt waterlogged, on the cusp of drowning. 

The interaction with John had not helped. Still grappling with the nagging suspicion that John was more than he seemed, Sherlock found himself torn. Part of him wondered— _hoped_ —that John was like him, intrigued by the all-consuming need to know the answers. 

Some other part of him whispered that John was something else entirely, that his misgivings were valid. The thought that John might be the Reaper ricocheted and clawed through his head and Sherlock dug his fingers into his hair, tugging and desperate.

All day, he had been too aware of the slim weight of the scalpel in his coat pocket. Had questioned himself—wondered why he kept it with him. Before the others had joined him at the lab, Sherlock had tested the tool for DNA, brushing for prints.

Nothing. Immaculate. Aside from James Phillimore’s blood and platelets, the medical tool turned crime scene evidence was clean.

Feeling the muscle memory of John’s tongue on his neck, Sherlock shivered. A soft whine slipped from his lips, and he dug a hand against the sofa, caught between a swell of panic and burning lust.

Closing his eyes, he found himself back in his mind palace. This time, the walls were less familiar, and he dimly recognized the hall from Bart’s. Looking down at his hands, Sherlock found the red thread of Johnathan Small’s case draped over his open, upturned palms. 

A blue strand fluttered down to his feet, drifting out of the air. When Sherlock grabbed at it, tugging, a form moved forward from the dark end of the hall. Raising his head, Sherlock watched John emerge. Faint light burned along the golden flecks of his greying hair, and his eyes were a shadowed, stormy blue, matching the colour of the thread Sherlock held. As he stared, the thread thickened, softened, changing into smooth, satin ribbon that wrapped loosely around his wrists and knuckles.

_ “John.” _

The ribbon tightened, curling like the light touch of a lover’s hands, soothing over his inflamed skin.

“Careful, Sherlock,” John murmured, feet carrying him toward Sherlock in slow, measured steps. “You don’t want to give me the wrong idea.”

Edges turning sharp and hard, the ribbon cut into the soft skin of Sherlock’s palms. He felt the pain from a distance as if it were happening to someone else. The ends of the ribbon fluttered into view, twisting in the air and wrapping around John’s shoulders and arms when he moved closer.

“What if I wanted… to give… the wrong idea?” Sherlock replied, mouth stumbling around the words as John’s hands gripped his hips. The stance mirrored the moment from earlier when they had stood together in reality, not just inside the fabrication of his own head. 

The ribbon, darker, almost black now, bound them together. It no longer cut into Sherlock, but looped along John’s forearms and wrists instead, trailing down and around Sherlock’s waist and legs. It felt like fire—like burning alive. He sucked in a mouthful of acrid air, everything fading to leave them standing in an empty hall, the other pieces of the case scattered.

“Do you?” John’s tightened his fingers, sliding higher, gripping Sherlock’s waist. His palms pressed, massaging at warm skin through Sherlock’s shirt. John’s head tilted up, eyes dark, and Sherlock found himself leaning, drawn in by their depthless stare. 

John’s breath warm on his skin, Sherlock’s chest clenched, throat tight. “You tell me,” he said, repeating John’s words from the last time they spoke in his mind palace. Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock bent, finding John’s mouth as the vague, faint light flicked out, leaving them in the dark. The walls shook and crumbled, reduced to ash, and Sherlock paid no attention. Even when John disappeared, replaced with thick, black smoke that poured into his lungs with every breath, he didn’t care. 

Sitting up, eyes torn open by a surge of panic, Sherlock took in the dark, empty sitting room. Sweat ran down his temple, plastering the thin material of his shirt to his back. Still clad in his Belstaff, Sherlock felt sick with heat, eyelashes fluttering as he sucked in loud mouthfuls of air. His lungs burned, straining, and his head swam with dizzy whorls at the sudden influx of oxygen. 

Caught on the cusp of hyperventilating, Sherlock tore at his coat, ripping it off and throwing it to the floor. The scalpel shook free from a pocket, glinting on the red carpet. Looking down at his hands, Sherlock realized he had dug nails into his palms, hard enough to draw blood. Breathing in cacophonous gasps, he watched red well in the shallow cuts.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

** December 2 **

Lestrade pulled the cruiser up to the curb outside a row of flats, old brick walls covered with crawling ivy, darkened with pollution and smog. Swinging the door open, Sherlock stepped out onto the sidewalk, small rocks skittering under his feet. Following Lestrade to the front door, he hovered with nervous energy while the DI bounced the brass knocker against the weathered wood.

His head ached, a throbbing pain pulsing at his temples. After the strange experience of John in his mind palace last night, Sherlock felt restless and untethered, a sick kind of longing burning in his chest. He had been unable to make sense of the interaction, making him toss and turn in bed, sheets clinging to his damp skin as sleep evaded him.

Now, his hands wouldn’t stay still, first plucking at the hem of his coat, then fluttering up to brush the edge of his collar. Lestrade shot a sharp look his way, and Sherlock forced himself to settle, gritting his teeth. 

John haunted the edges of his mind, and he bit down hard on his lip. The door swung open, and Sherlock breathed control into his lungs.

Madeline Small was a slight woman with narrow hips and greying brown hair. She looked over both men with dark green eyes, her momentary flash of confusion replaced with a resigned recognition. “Oh—you must be DI Lestrade and Detective Holmes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lestrade replied, voice gentle. He shot another quick look at Sherlock, the unspoken message of _don’t be a prat_ evident in his eyes. Sherlock stuck out a hand, narrowed eyes raking over the woman.

“Sherlock.”

Mrs. Small shook his hand, looking up at him with a faint frown. “DI Lestrade told me you were assisting with the case.” Sherlock nodded.

“Yes. I am an, ah…outside consultant.” He bit his cheek and forced a smile. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

“Of—of course,” the woman replied, suddenly stepping aside. “Please, come in.” She gestured them through the door, closing it before she led them beyond the entryway to a small living room. When she had settled onto the couch, Lestrade perched beside, casting a wary eye at Sherlock as he hovered by the coffee table.

“Mrs. Small, we were hoping you might be willing to discuss your son, Johnathan,” Sherlock began, uncomfortable. Her face crumpled at the mention of her son, and he shifted awkwardly at the tears in her eyes. Sherlock offered her a tissue, clearing his throat when she thanked him. Across from him, Lestrade looked surprised. Sherlock ignored him, dropping into a chair and settling forward.

“So.” Sherlock dug his fingers into the armchair. “Mrs. Small—your son. I was hoping I might ask you some questions.”

Fresh tears welling in her eyes, Madeline Small buried her face in her hands. Sherlock bit down on a sigh and shot an exasperated look at Lestrade. The DI glared back, shrugging as he patted Madeline’s shoulder.

“I know this must be very hard for you, Mrs. Small,” he soothed, blowing out a mouthful of air with an embarrassed flush in his face. “But anything you might be able to tell us about your son could be helpful in our investigation.”

The distraught woman shook her head, pressing the tissue to her nose. “Who could _do_ that?” She said through a tight voice. “What kind of monster does _that_ to someone?”

Leaning forward, Sherlock folded his hands under his chin, eyes sharp. “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he murmured, gaze locked on her face. “What can you tell us?” His words were demanding, and Lestrade shot him a warning look. The sharpness of his voice seemed to help the woman draw herself up with sudden strength. Sighing, she leaned into the couch with a snuffle.

“I’m a mess, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve lost them both now, you know?” Tilting her head back, she looked at the ceiling, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Both my children, dead and gone before me. It doesn’t seem right.” Her lip quivered, face threatening to crumble again. Leaning forward, Sherlock touched light fingers to her knee, startling her into looking at him.

“Tell us about your sons,” he encouraged, voice soft. “Tell us about Peter and Jonathan.”

She stared at him, dark brown eyes meeting his frost-blue ones, and nodded. Sherlock settled back into the chair, crossing his legs as Madeline took a deep breath and began to speak. Her voice wavered but remained coherent.

“Peter was younger than Jonathan by four years. Jonathan was such a good big brother. So protective, always looking out for Peter. When he…when we lost him… it nearly destroyed Jonathan. He…he _changed._ Became this other person. Someone I didn’t recognize. Darker, withdrawn. His habits were so unpredictable. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave the house for days. Other times, he would disappear for almost a week, coming home in the early hours, reeking of alcohol, and high.” She paused, wiping a tear from her cheek. Her breathing shaky, she went on. “Before I found out he was killed, I thought it was just another of those times. That he was gone a little longer than usual. Then the police showed up and…” she trailed off in a soft choking sound, and Lestrade patted her shoulder again.

“How did Peter die, Mrs. Small?” Sherlock asked. She looked up at him, lashes clumped.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you already knew.” Blowing her nose, she continued. “He was in the army. Afghanistan. There was…something went wrong. A firebomb took down almost his entire platoon. Only the commander survived. Major Sholto. I believe he was badly burned, but still lived. Everyone else, including Peter, died.” Mrs. Small rubbed at her red eyes. “Jonathan blamed Major Sholto, but I knew it could happen. Didn’t make it any easier when it did, but Peter knew the risk, and he went anyway.” She smiled, faint and watery. “He was so proud to be serving his country. I remember his first day, before he shipped off, resplendent in his uniform…”

Her words faded away, washing over Sherlock in useless, unheeded noise. His mind raced, brain whirring as it made connections. Found the lines between the dots.

_ Afghanistan. _

He shot to his feet, pulling silence into the room with the abrupt movement. Lestrade and Madeline both stared up at him.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, confused.

“Sorry, got to go,” Sherlock replied, long legs carrying him quickly across the room. Lestrade’s hurried apologies drifted from the couch before he appeared at Sherlock’s side, catching his arm just as he reached the front door.

“What the _hell_ , Sherlock?” he hissed, digging his fingers into coat and flesh. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped, shrugging the hand off. “There—there’s _something,_ but I’m not sure. I need, I need—” he broke off with a growl, digging fingers into his hair, frustration heavy in his mouth. Lestrade held up his hands and backed away.

“All right, Sherlock. All right, easy now.” He shook his head, sighing. “If it’s that important, then go. I’ll finish up here.”

Nodding, Sherlock tightened his scarf around his throat and stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking around for a taxi. Spotting one, he lifted a hand, beckoning it over. After sliding into the back seat and giving his address, he lapsed into a pensive silence, staring down at his hands, mind racing.

_ Afghanistan _ .

There was something there, but he didn’t have all the dots yet, couldn’t make the connections. Closing his eyes, he stepped through an arch, into the cold, impersonal hall from Bart’s Hospital.

John was waiting for him. His arms were folded over his chest, broad shoulders set against the bland wall. His chin tilted up at Sherlock’s approach, but he maintained his casual slouch.

“Back already?”

There was a smug edge to the greeting, one Sherlock shoved aside even as his skin tingled. Planting a hand against the wall, he leaned forward, crowding toward John. Even here, in his own mind, John refused to be cowed, holding Sherlock’s hard stare with ease.

His tongue flicked out along his lips, and Sherlock bit down on his own tongue, pushing the fantasy away.

“Stop that,” he snapped, digging his fingers against the wall. Strangely, it buckled, warped, turning intangible and smoke-like under his force. John grinned, tilting upward, his breath hot against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Make me,” he breathed, and Sherlock closed his eyes with a hiss, fighting for control. John had done something to him. Torn into him in such a way that Sherlock couldn’t even control this, a figment of his imagination.

A sinking feeling in his stomach, Sherlock wondered how such a thing had happened, entirely and without his notice.

Forcing his eyes open, he stared down at John, teeth ground together in a tight grimace. “Afghanistan.” The word barked out through Sherlock’s bared teeth, tense and edged with panic.

John grinned.

“We’re here.”

The cab driver’s voice shattered the mental images, everything swirling into smoke when Sherlock opened his eyes, cursing under his breath. Handing the man his money, he slid out of the cab and stormed into 221B, the door slamming shut behind him. Ignoring a faint, indignant cry from Mrs. Hudson’s door, Sherlock climbed the stairs two at a time, throwing his coat onto the sofa as he passed. Dropping into a chair at the table, he opened a laptop and typed furiously at the keys.

“Afghanistan, Afghanistan…” Muttering, repeating, he scrolled through several web pages, pale eyes sharp as he searched. Nothing seemed to hold the answers he needed, and he tugged a hand through his hair, mumbling, “No, no, no,” over and over in a fit of frustration. Finally, he found a military-based publication from a year ago. Some of the information was likely outdated, but it had what Sherlock was looking for.

_ Major Dooms Youth Recruits _ the headline read. Sherlock skimmed it quickly, reading the list of soldiers who had perished in the IED accident. Peter Small’s name was there, and the others in his platoon. Major Sholto was mentioned as well, with the writer holding nothing back in a scathing opinion of the Major’s part in the operation. To Sherlock, a civilian, it sounded like conjecture, the situation one of great misfortune, but nothing that could be blamed on the Major himself. There was a short blurb stating Major Sholto had been honourably discharged and invalided back to London a little over a year ago. Nothing remotely useful.

Pausing to lean back from the desk, Sherlock rolled his shoulders. Raking a hand over his face, through tangled curls, he tilted forward, fingers dancing over the keyboard again. It took clever digging, but he finally found what he was looking for.

A photo, from an article even older than the last. Dated three years and six months ago. Something to do with some mindless military announcement, retrievable because of its connection to Major Sholto. The grainy image was of a group of soldiers, standing in front of endless desert, rifles slung across their chests and dirt on their faces. It was hard to make out distinct features, even when Sherlock leaned forward. His nose almost touched the computer screen as he squinted before realizing the names were listed beneath the photo.

_ William Murray. Lukas Harold. Davey Brown. Shawn Walker. James Sholto. John Watson.  _

Sherlock sat back in his chair with a thump, arms falling loose into his lap. He stared at the list, at John’s name, after Major Sholto’s. In the picture, Sholto—a tall, rigid man with reddish hair—had an arm slung around John’s shoulders. Their pixelated faces were barely recognizable, but their smiles were undeniable.

When he closed his eyes, John was still leaning against the wall of Bart’s hallway, flashing him a grin that was all teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🤷🏻♀️


	10. Kill for the Thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _kill for the thrill  
>  cut it, stick it where you got him.  
> circle rollin' under,  
> running red to the stop._
> 
> _where's your mother?  
>  fall down dead.  
> dirty mind, dirty mouth,  
> pretty little head_
> 
> **_pretty little head_ – eliza rickman**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing sexual predator behaviour in this chapter from John, heads up.

**December 2**

The low drone of mingled voices buzzed in the air, setting goosebumps along John’s arms and neck as he surveyed the bustle and mingle of the coffee shop. His head turned, eyes scanning occupied tables until he spotted a woman seated by the window. There were piles of paper in front of her, and a large, black laptop. Forcing his lips into a wide, welcoming grin, eyes softened, John made his way over to the empty seat across from her. 

“Afternoon,” he greeted, prompting her to look up at him with a momentary blink of surprise. Looking up from the laptop, confusion quickly spread over her face, though she offered a warm smile. 

“Hello…?” The word trailed off into a questioning tone, and John held out a hand.

“David,” he lied, smile widening when the woman pressed dainty fingers to his, shaking his hand with a light grip. 

“Jennifer,” she replied, cheeks warming as John offered a rakish grin, leaning on the back of the chair. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Jennifer—lovely name, by the way—” The flush deepened, and Jennifer bit her bottom lip, tinted with a pale pink shade of lipstick. John bit back something darker than a grin as he went on. “I honestly _never_ do this, but—could I buy you a coffee?” At the startled tilt of her head, John hurried to add, “I saw you and just had to ask. Feel free to tell me to go to hell, obviously, if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

She fixed him with an appraising look, hesitant and just a little wary. The sight made John want to laugh. She was uncertain, cautious. Likely, her instincts were well-honed, picking up that something wasn’t quite right. 

_Just as she should._

“One coffee,” he pressed, his grin crooked and eyes bright. Affecting the guise of the innocent admirer was like a second skin, and he donned it without fail. Jennifer’s eyes softened just slightly, and John felt something loosen in his chest as possibility moved closer to certainty. 

“Well…” A brief flicker of hesitance before Jennifer’s tense shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. “Why not.” 

John grinned again, digging his nails against the wooden chair. “Wonderful. What’ll it be?”

Still giving him that appraising look, but a little more interested than concerned this time, Jennifer returned his smile. “Latte is fine, please.”

“Wonderful,” John repeated, cocking an eyebrow. “Be right back.”

Turning his back and pacing to the coffee counter, John schooled his face into a bland, vaguely friendly expression, ordering and paying for the coffees with minimal interaction. When he returned to the table with drinks in hand, Jennifer welcomed him with a bright smile and a soft ‘thank you’ as he passed the latte to her. 

When their fingers touched, John noted her sharp intake of breath. And the faded gold of the wedding ring on her left hand. 

“No problem,” John replied, settling into the chair across from her. “My pleasure.” Keeping his mug in hand, he looked over the piles of paper spread on the table. “Project?” 

“Right, sorry—” Jennifer hurried to push the sheets into neat stacks, tucking them away into a leather case. “I work for a news outlet. Deadlines and all that.” She smiled apologetically. 

John’s brow rose, affecting an interested look. “Anything exciting?” At her sharp stare, he offered an avid, curious expression. “I don’t follow the papers much.” 

Jennifer’s face eased, and she nodded, taking a sip at the latte in her hands. “Actually, yes. Have you heard of the Grim Reaper?”

Tilting his head to the side, John looked thoughtful, pushing his lips out as he pretended to consider the question. Finally, he replied, “Isn’t that some new serial killer or something?” At Jennifer’s enthusiastic nod, he smiled. 

“Yes—he’s basically dominating the news right now.” Her body twitched in a delicate shudder. The sight made John’s mouth water, pulse increasing as he forced the excitement down. “He’s already killed nine people, and the murders are happening faster now.”

“Should you be telling me all this?” John asked, pushing aside his amusement. Jennifer shrugged.

“Given that it’ll be all over the news by this evening, not much harm in telling you. Plus,” Jennifer offered an unexpected wink. “You’ll keep my secret, won’t you, David?”

John’s reply was a wide grin. 

“Oh, you can count on it, Jennifer.” He chuckled, reaching out with his shoe to brush her leg. “I think you’ll find I’m _very_ good at keeping secrets.” 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Convincing Jennifer to invite him back to her flat was all too easy. John could only guess at the state of a marriage, one which led to one partner falling into infidelity so willingly. He assumed it was not the first time she had done such a thing. 

They stumbled through the door into the entry hall, hands and fingers roaming and tangling in clothes. Her lips moved over John’s face, and he pinned her against the wall, grinding forward with his hips, gripping her waist. When she tilted her head back, offering her neck, he descended upon it with rough hunger, mouthing over the warm lines of tendon and muscle through skin. 

“Oh, David,” she breathed, low voice all but panting his false name. John’s reply was to fist the fingers of his right hand in her hair and pull, making her groan.

“Anyone else expected home?” he asked, painting bruises over her throat with his lips. Jennifer shook her head, words failing as he guided her down the hall. She tugged him into a dark bedroom, and they fell to the bed in a riot of heavy breathing and eager hands. 

After John shucked his jeans and slid his palms beneath Jennifer’s rucked-up shirt, smoothing over warm, soft skin, his phone went off. The ringtone was deafening among their muted sounds, and John muttered apologies as he dug for the device.

The screen displayed Sherlock’s name and number, and John hesitated. If he ignored it, he would miss the opportunity to create an alibi. Turning, John pressed his body along Jennifer’s for a quick, intimate moment. In the dark, he heard her breath catch.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he murmured, mouthing at her jaw. “Won’t be long.”

Slipping off the bed, he answered the call and stepped into the hall. “Hello.”

“Don’t you usually answer with ‘John Watson’?” The voice on the other end was sharp, almost rude, and John bit back a smirk.

“Figured you knew who you were calling,” he replied, smoothing the heel of his palm over the hard ridge of flesh caught beneath the cotton fabric of his underwear. “Need something?”

There was a sigh in response before Sherlock launched into a rushed barrage of words. “One of my contacts managed to confirm which nightclub James Phillimore was at the night he was murdered. Lestrade is organizing a stakeout, and is allowing me to go undercover as a club-goer.” Another sigh, this time edged with frustration. “He’ll only allow it if I go with backup.”

A brief silence stretched out, and John’s lips curled into a sharp smile. “That you asking me to tag along?” he asked, forcing his tone to stay light as a possessive excitement purred in his chest. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock huffed, irritated.

John’s smile widened into a predatory grin. “Count me in.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

He sank into Jennifer’s warm, willing body, and set his hands around her throat. A flood of adrenaline washed over him, setting off flashbulb, sparking synaptic pleasure in his head. With a delicious push and pull of control and release, John coaxed the life from her body, leaving her writhing and, finally, deadly still in tangled sheets. 

John settled back on his haunches, cock hanging spent and soft between his legs, feeling graceful serenity filter through the discordant need in his chest. 

Disposing of the condom—taking care to wash it thoroughly and pocket the remaining evidence—he set about cleaning and positioning the body. Carved his mark into the dead women’s air-deprived flesh. Admired his handiwork with a deep-set satisfaction that pasted a wolfish smile on his face.

Finally satisfied that he had not left anything behind that might link back to him, John strode to the door. Hesitated. Tore a sheet of paper from a notepad on the entryway table and wrote a slow, awkward note with his non-dominant hand. Settled it on the dead woman’s chest, and left the flat, leaving the door open a crack behind him before striding quickly down the street, head bowed, hands in his pockets. 

In the flat, reclined against the pillows, Jennifer’s body lay stiff and heavy. On her chest, the note was a stark white splash of non-colour, messy scrawl looping across the middle, reaching outside the neatly ruled lines:

_Sher **Lock**_

_Ho you think you are a genius,_

_L a bonafide prodigy_

_M mastermind._

_Es i think you’re_

**_e m p t y_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short. been a busy couple of days. we had a crazy rainstorm, which oversaturated the soil next to the foundation of the house we rent the downstairs of, which caused a leak through the wall, into our storage room, part of the bedroom, and the landlord's half of the basement. no serious damage, but we currently have half the storage room floor ripped up, the bedroom carpet pulled back, and enough fans running to make the bedroom into a wind tunnel. currently writing this while sitting on a camping mat on the living room floor, where I slept last night.
> 
> what an adventure.


	11. Swallow Up the Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _are you deranged like me?  
>  are you strange like me?  
> lighting matches just to  
> swallow up the flame like me?_
> 
> _do you call yourself a  
>  fucking hurricane like me?  
> pointing fingers 'cos  
> you'll never take the blame like me?_
> 
> _and all the people say:  
>  you can't wake up,  
> this is not a dream.  
> you're part of a machine,  
> you are not a human being_
> 
> **_gasoline_ \- halsey**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I've added some new tags for this story. TW for predatory, possessive, violent behaviour/intimacy(ish).

**December 3**

The connection was tenuous at best. Despite the fact that John knew Major Sholto, had served with him, it did not prove a connection between John and Johnathan Small. But the potential hovered at the vestiges, and Sherlock found himself turning the possibilities over in his head.

If John’s relationship with Major Sholto was what Sherlock imagined it might be, there could be a valid reason to tie John to another of the Reaper’s victims. First Sarah Sawyer, now Johnathan Small.

The evidence was compelling but incomplete. Sherlock felt a surge of adrenaline, singeing through his veins and making them sing.

John’s immediate and surprisingly enthusiastic agreement to accompany Sherlock to the club in an undercover capacity threatened to unravel his already questionable resolve. In tandem with the suspicions echoing through his head, there was an appalling lack of control inherent in their dynamic. Even if the loss of power was mainly limited to the happenings between himself and John in his Mind Palace, Sherlock was unsettled.

His mind continued to replay the moment at Bart’s, where John had painted a line of hot, wet saliva over Sherlock’s neck with his tongue before leaving him on-edge and unsteady.

If John was the Grim Reaper, Sherlock knew he should be horrified. Even if he _wasn’t,_ he probably should _still_ be troubled. And he was, but perhaps not for the logical reasons someone normal—Lestrade, maybe—might have advised.

It was the potential of _more_ that terrified him. John was proving himself a tantalizing, consuming distraction, one Sherlock had already lost precious mental acuity to in his building obsession. While he was uncertain how much longer he could keep John at the edges, just outside of orbit, he found himself loathe to stray too far away from his compelling presence.

Lestrade did not seem to share such feelings.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” The DI’s voice was reproving, face grim as he looked over the tall man in the passenger seat of the cruiser. “Inviting John along to this undercover operation—do you think it’s a good idea?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock tugged at the collar of his tight V-neck shirt, the chest marred with artistically-placed holes, through which his pale skin could be glimpsed as he shifted in the seat. “You were the one who insisted I have backup,” he retorted, fiddling with the shirt until he was satisfied. Lestrade’s breath huffed out in a long, low sigh.

“Yes, Sherlock, I did say that. But I think we both know I meant an officer should accompany you—not this ex-soldier turned doctor-teacher bloke who we all barely know.”

Raising an incredulous brow, Sherlock shot Lestrade a hard look. “Need I remind you that it was _you,_ Lestrade, who said I should ask John Watson out in the first place. _You_ who encouraged romantic pursuit.”

Lestrade snorted. “Yeah, _I_ suggested you supply the guy with a pity shag, not drag him along after you on brutal serial murder cases like a dog on a leash!” His voice rose at the end, a harsh bite of noise that made Sherlock’s teeth grit together.

“John Watson is the furthest thing from a _dog on a leash_ ,” he seethed, jaw locking into a tense clench.

“Mm, I’d hope so.”

The voice broke into their conversation. Sherlock looked up with a start to find John standing at the passenger door, leaning with his arms folded on the open window. His face was amused, with an underlying glint of something darker beneath the easy façade. Sherlock almost flinched away from the hard-edged light of that look, barely catching himself. Swallowing the urge, he plastered a bland smile on his face, knowing his eyes must betray his actual pleasure at John’s abrupt challenge to Lestrade’s opinion.

“John,” he greeted, faint gratification filtering through. “Perfect timing. No traffic today?”

Evening had begun to fall, the day fading into the rich, gilded hues of the golden hour. The lighting backlit John in a hazy halo of soft, auburn tones, setting the silvery strands of his hair alight. He looked like a man set ablaze, the sight taking Sherlock’s breath away.

Recalling the mental imagery of a sharp, darkening strand of ribbon tying them together, twisting around their twined forms, he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, pushing the memory away.

“Not today,” John replied. His eyes, darkened by the aurora of the sunset, skated over Sherlock’s seated form, taking in the torn shirt, skin-tight acid-washed jeans, and heavy Doc Marten boots. “I feel underdressed.”

Sherlock returned the searching stare. John’s not unimpressively muscled arms, shoulders and chest were outlined by a thin, dark blue t-shirt, legs clad in well-worn jeans with one knee ripped out, no doubt from actual wear and tear, rather than something done by a machine. A thick leather armband encircled his left forearm, decorated with metal studs. His hair was artlessly styled to disarray, just enough to look like purposeful bedhead, but not sloppy. Overall, the result was stunning, and Sherlock coughed. It was a harsh sound, meant to cover the way his breath caught in his throat as a sharp spike of lust growled deep in his stomach.

“You look… fine.” Clearing his throat once more, smoother this time, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Are your people in position?”

“Of course,” Lestrade replied, voice snappish. He was on edge, his unease palpable in the small space inside the car as he looked at John with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to wear a wire or an earpiece?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock tugged at the low collar of his V-neck again. “Fairly hard to hide a wire with this outfit, and, given the close quarters of the dance floor, an earpiece is too risky.” A low sound from John, something between a laugh and a hum, made Sherlock look over at him, head cocked in an inquisitive tilt.

Catching the glance, John’s brow rose. “Dancing, are you?”

Sherlock’s response was cool and at ease, masking the quiver of excitement arcing along his spine. “Problem?”

“Nope, just didn’t think you were the type.” John’s reply was just as quick and casual. The air thrummed between them, buzzing with sudden energy.

“Guess you thought wrong,” Sherlock quipped, grabbing the door handle and pushing out of the cruiser. John backed up to allow the door to open, striding into Sherlock’s personal space once it had closed. Looking down at him, Sherlock caught the faint smell of aftershave and hair product, a mixed blend of pine, woodsmoke, and gun oil. The combination was intoxicating, and he caught himself just before he leaned toward John, swaying into his orbit.

“Guess so,” John said, a sharp edge to the grin he offered as Sherlock narrowed his eyes. His head tilting to the side, the retired army-doctor licked his lips. “Think you’ll need a partner?”

Sherlock tried to beat down a quiver of excitement and failed. “With certainty.”

John’s tongue flicked out again, catching at the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock found his eyes drawn to it like a moth to the flame. The moment snapped and shattered as Lestrade interrupted, his voice impatient. “All right. If you two are ready, we’re good to go.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to glare at the DI, briefly catching John’s sudden glower.

“Okay, _Garfield_ ,” Sherlock spat, eyes narrowed. Lestrade shot him a hard look, jerking his chin toward the club entrance. He didn’t reply to the incorrect name, and Sherlock pursed his lips, denying himself the urge to smirk as he turned toward the club, John falling into step at his side.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sherlock felt the music before he heard it. A visceral, pulsating beat reverberated through the falling chill of evening, drawing goosebumps over his skin the closer they got to the front of the club. The establishment was called _Tape_ , in that strange, vague way of naming that only seemed to apply to dance clubs and hipster-type restaurants based on gentrification tactics.

They were admitted with little fuss, stepping through a plain black door and into a crush of bodies. The music was even louder inside, the interior plunged into a charged near-darkness, broken by the intermittent flicker of strobing lights. Green, purple, and red flashes of colour splashed over the people on the dance floor, painting Sherlock’s pale skin in alternating riots of light. His initial response was one of discordant panic before his hindbrain took over, making his hips wiggle and shift in a slow, languid swagger as they made their way into the crowd.

“Ready?” Sherlock murmured, sensing John’s unwavering presence at his side. When John replied, his words were a rough growl.

“Oh, _yes._ ”

The sound, raspy and hoarse, made sharp by the husky edges of John’s voice, pushed away Sherlock’s trepidation. Any uneasy suspicions of John’s potential connection with Johnathan Small’s death fled, his sensory perceptions of the immediate environment narrowing to John’s warmth, his dominating company. When his hands settled on Sherlock’s waist, that narrow focus decreased further, to an almost obsessive single-minded awareness of John’s palms, warm through the thin material of Sherlock’s shirt.

John guided him deeper into the crowd, toward the middle of the dance floor. Sherlock moved in stuttering steps, drawn along by those hands and the hard press of John’s chest and hips against his back and legs. When they settled within the sparse gap in the crowd, John’s fingers dug into the curve of Sherlock’s iliac crest, tugging until they were pressed together, Sherlock’s rear pressing into the soft flesh of John’s belly and the hard jut of his belt. Their hips moved together, hesitant at first, then with looser, sleeker motion.

Sherlock was struck by a strange sense of familiarity as John’s hands explored his body. One palm smoothed over the soft material of his shirt, along the ridge of his abdominals and up to his chest, the other anchoring Sherlock’s swaying hips against him. John moved in tandem with the teeth-rattling bass, slow and leisurely in the build-up, quick and forceful with the crescendos of aggressive EDM beats.

When John’s arms wrapped around him from behind, thumbs brushing over the peaked points of his nipples through the shirt, Sherlock let his head fall back, turning so his nose brushed along the skin of John’s temple. A warm mouth moved over the curve of his neck, tongue painting fire and saliva across the jut of tendons. Even as Sherlock’s breath caught, stuttering in his throat, confusion and distant panic sharpened his senses, making him shudder when John’s teeth caught at the tender muscle between neck and shoulder.

He never allowed himself distraction, not while on a case. Now, here he was, in the middle of undercover work, letting John reduce him to a trembling, hazy mess in the centre of writhing bodies and loose limbs. As the thought occurred, Sherlock realized there was no ‘letting’ John do anything—he was an unstoppable force, sweeping Sherlock away like an endless wave. It was impossible to prevent, to deny, and he pushed his face into John’s neck with a loud groan, thankful the sound was swallowed in the rise and fall of the music. But John heard it, his mouth twitching up into a blade-edged smirk as he sucked at Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing aside the shirt collar for better access.

If not for the sudden flicker of movement at the corner of his eye, Sherlock was certain he would have let John devour him whole. Would have allowed himself to be completely, utterly consumed by the blaze personified in the man grinding up against his back.

Sherlock lifted his head as a man moved through the crowd from the right, eyes shifting over the crowd. There was a predatory look on his face, scanning those nearest him with evident hunger.

_The Reaper?_

“John,” Sherlock husked, swallowing hard when his voice emerged as little more than a throaty groan. “ _John._ ”

The mouth at his neck paused, John’s fingers clenching and unclenching over Sherlock’s chest. The movement was possessive, but Sherlock pushed the thought aside as he nodded at the man prowling through the crowd.

“Reaper?” John breathed, hot exhale warming Sherlock’s ear and drawing shivers along his skin. Shaking the feeling off, Sherlock nodded.

“Maybe.” Slowly extracting himself from John’s grasp—relinquished with obvious reluctance from the other man—Sherlock hunched his shoulders, adjusting his height as he moved after the target. John shifted to the side, melting into the crowd with surprising ease, circling around parallel to Sherlock. Momentarily distracted by the stealth of John’s movements, Sherlock looked back to find the man had disappeared.

“Shit,” he hissed, dropping pretense for outright pursuit. Using the aggressive angles of his sharp elbows and slender limbs, Sherlock pushed his way through the surging crowd. People cussed him out, and he ignored them. Catching sight of the man again, he pressed harder, glancing over his shoulder to note John’s position to his right.

Turning his head forward, Sherlock reached the edge of the dance floor, striding up to the man and grabbing his arm. “Hey—” he began, then fell back as the man drove his shoulder hard into Sherlock’s chest, followed by an elbow in the face. The attack narrowly missed his nose—avoiding a likely break—striking a glancing blow to his cheekbone instead. It was enough to incapacitate him for a moment, and Sherlock bent in two, gasping for air. The man took off, scrambling through the edges of the dance floor and jolting toward the door. John was after him, pausing only to grab Sherlock’s face and confirm a lack of a break before he moved on.

Regaining his breath, Sherlock chased his heels. He caught up as his body shook off the minor assault, dogging John’s steps, then overtaking him with his own long-legged, full-tilt sprint. The man darted down an alley, scrambling over an overturned bin, tripping, then tearing into the distance once he caught his balance.

Pulling up sharply, Sherlock watched him go. The burst of activity left him breathless, panting as he bent down to retrieve a small baggie from the ground, dropped by the man when he tripped. Sniffing, he identified it as marijuana, making a noise of disgust.

Not the Reaper after all.

John arrived, lunging around the bend in the alley with his eyes dark, his face a twisted snarl. When he found Sherlock alone, panting but upright, he skidded to a stop. John stared at him, chest rising and falling with sharp gasps for air. The snarl on his face eased into a hard expression, mouth twisted in an aggressive grimace, a side-effect of adrenaline. Straightening, Sherlock closed his eyes and shoved sweat-dampened curls from his forehead.

“Well, that was—” _A waste of time_ was the end of the sentence, but he swallowed the words as John advanced. In one smooth movement, he grabbed Sherlock by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The force made Sherlock’s head snap back, skull striking brick before John claimed his mouth with teeth and tongue.

Dazed from his skull making contact with the brick wall of the alleyway, Sherlock blinked, vision foggy. He felt limp and shaky, John’s grip on his throat the only thing keeping him up. When John sank his teeth into his bottom lip, Sherlock gasped, tasting blood. Pushing his tongue past Sherlock’s open lips, rough and demanding, John crowded Sherlock back until his spine ground against uneven brick and mortar. One of his legs came up, knee forced between Sherlock’s thighs to press forward and up, pinning him in place.

“I want to fuck you,” John growled, releasing Sherlock’s mouth to sink his teeth into the side of his neck, above his own hand. Sherlock twitched, trying to jerk away from the pain, but John’s fingers tightened, making him fall still. Airway constricted, Sherlock made a low choking noise, spots dancing in his vision. He raised a hand, placing it on John’s shoulder, but made no real attempt to push him away.

John leaned his head back, fingers flexing and loosening momentarily on Sherlock’s neck. His eyes were blown wide, pupils huge and black, and Sherlock could feel him pressing rigid against his hip. He shifted, rolling into John’s erection, his other hand coming up to drape loosely around John’s waist. John’s eyes widened, a brief flicker of surprise, before his lids dropped half-closed and a sharp grin twitched over his lips.

“Yeah?” he crooned, leaning in to breathe hard and hot against Sherlock’s mouth. “You like that?” John lifted his head, kissing Sherlock with a force that left no question who was in control. When he tilted his head back again, blood from Sherlock’s bleeding lip stained his mouth, licked away with a slow, sweeping flick of his tongue. John’s fingers flexed, tightening in small increments on Sherlock’s neck. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”

Sherlock’s head fell back, hair tangling over his forehead. A faint drizzle began to fall, soaking into his curls and running down their faces.

John’s use of _baby_ was anything but soothing, edged with a dark, possessive tone that made Sherlock quiver. His only answer was a low, strangled moan, and John released his neck to slide a hand into Sherlock’s hair. Gripping with rough fingers, he pulled Sherlock’s head back farther, sucking a bruise over his pulse point. Melting at the violent tug in his curls, Sherlock went loose, fingers curling around the nape of John’s neck.

Footsteps on the wet pavement drowned out the soft whine that slipped from his lips and he almost collapsed to the ground when John’s mouth left his skin. Regaining his balance, Sherlock straightened up as Lestrade rounded the corner. John remained where he was, one hand pressed flat against the brick wall next to Sherlock’s head, the other on Sherlock’s hip, caging him in with his body.

“Bloody hell, you two are fast,” the DI puffed, gripping his side. “Did you—” Standing up, Lestrade froze, taking in the scene. His eyes darted between them, pausing on the bruise marking Sherlock’s neck, and the blood trickling down his bottom lip. He locked eyes with John, hunched toward Sherlock. John’s head was dropped low, lips pulled back from his teeth, shoulders lifted in a clear, domineering manner as he pinned Sherlock to the wall with a knee between the detective’s legs.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, placed shaking hands against John’s chest and pressed. John pushed back, head jerking around to look into Sherlock’s face. This close, their breathing mingled, hot and intimate.

Lestrade hovered at the mouth of the alley, watching the scene unfold. He looked uncertain, caught between retreating and assisting. John held his ground, staring unblinking into Sherlock’s eyes. When Sherlock began to squirm, Lestrade took a step forward in response. Holding up his hand, John grinned.

“That’s okay, Detective-Inspector,” he said, looking up at Sherlock. “No help needed. He’s fine.” Dragging his thumb over a cheekbone and down to his mouth, John smeared blood over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Aren’t you?” Staring at John, Sherlock nodded. His breath hitched, catching in his throat. A moment of silence stretched out before Lestrade went on, uneasy.

“Right, well… anyway.” The DI cleared his throat, eyes flickering between John and Sherlock again. “I just got off the phone. It sounds like there’s been another Reaper murder. Middle-aged woman, found by the husband. It fits the MO, scythe mark and everything.”

Sherlock tilted his head in a nod. When he shifted back into the wall, John’s hands relaxed, stroking slowly down his chest in a distinctly dominant manner. Lestrade watched them both, his expression unreadable, eyes uneasy.

Panic rippled through Sherlock’s mind, even as his body responded to John’s control. Resisting the urge to sway into John’s orbit, Sherlock forced his thoughts to clarify and focus. He met John’s eyes until the other man backed away with a slick grin, nails scraping over Sherlock’s arm before he stepped back.

Looking back to Lestrade, Sherlock tightened his face into something hard and controlled. “Let’s go,” he said. He ignored the DI’s sideways look, pushing past him, heading in the direction of the parking lot. John followed, silent but impossible to ignore.

His presence was like a sun, burning into Sherlock’s back.


	12. Wise to the Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the birds and the bees,  
>  they are wise to the lies.  
> so they took to the trees  
> and took to the skies.  
> on top of the chain and  
> safe from the rain.  
> whatcha' know about  
> the ways of the underside?_
> 
> _  
> **the mission (m is for milla mix)**  
>  _  
>  **\- puscifer**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I changed the victim from Janette Owens to Jennifer Wilson. Figured it made more sense given the infidelity aspect of her case.

By the time they arrived at the crime scene, it was nearing 9 pm. Looking up at Jennifer’s flat as he strode through the front door for the second time in two days, John felt a reassuring sense of déjà vu. His mind wandered, flipping through vivid recollections of murdering the woman. Hands around her throat, her body warm and then still beneath his. His eyes fluttered shut, allowing the briefest of moments to relish the memory.

“The victim is Jennifer Wilson, early-30s. She works for a local news outlet.” Lestrade’s voice carried as he led them into the flat. “Husband said he found her a few hours ago, around six o’clock. He called it in right away. Forensics arrived on scene an hour later, and the case was called out maybe an hour after that.”

Snapping back to the present, John looked at Sherlock, striding through the flat with an air of control. If John did not now intimately know how easily he could shake the foundations of said control, he would almost be taken in by Sherlock’s act. As it was, he noted the tense lines of Sherlock’s shoulders, the stiff gait of his steps as they followed Lestrade to the master bedroom. 

They passed a man, back pressed to the wall, his face pallid and tear-streaked. Donovan hovered at his side, her expression grim as she tried to take his statement. The man—who John assumed was the husband—spoke in broken fits and starts, words unsteady around gasping breaths. 

John hid the smile threatening his careful façade. 

“Jesus Christ.”

Lestrade’s muttered curse brought John’s focus back to the moment at hand, looking over the scene as Sherlock moved toward the bed. Pulling on gloves, the detective bent, poking a finger to the blue-tinged flesh along the bottom of Jennifer’s calves. There was no change from the pressure of his touch.

“Livor Mortis,” John said, stepping forward to Sherlock’s side. He leaned down to study the corpse as if he didn’t already know every intimate detail about the woman’s death. Pressed his palm to the small of Sherlock’s back and greedily relished the detective’s sharp intake of breath. “The blood has pooled and fixed in place.” He tilted his head, considering. “The body is still stiff, so it’ll have been less than 36 hours. I’d say the death occurred between 12-24 or so hours ago. Either early this morning or sometime yesterday.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted over him, evaluating. John’s hand pressed harder to his back, warm skin against the rough fabric of his heavy coat. They shared a silent moment, Sherlock studying John for precious seconds. The detective’s face was impassive, his bottom lip marred by a smudge of dried blood where John’s teeth had split the flesh. Finally, Sherlock nodded, looking past John to Lestrade as he straightened up. 

“I want to talk to the husband.”

Lestrade nodded, opening his mouth to reply when Donovan’s voice broke in. John looked away from Sherlock, finding the sergeant in the doorway. 

“There’s a note,” she said, holding up an evidence bag. “It was left on the body. We dusted for prints. No luck.”

Sherlock’s face darkened, and he strode around John, stance stiff and aggressive as he approached the female officer. “You removed evidence from the scene?” The voice issuing from Sherlock’s bruised mouth was frigid, edged with sharp fury. “Before I had a chance to see it in its entirety?”

Donovan’s face darkened, brows drawing down as her mouth pursed. “We took pictures,” she snapped, shoving the plastic sealed letter out toward the advancing man. Her expression twisted, taking on a malevolent light. “It’s addressed to you, by the way.”

Reaching out, Sherlock paused, surprise flashing over the anger. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he took the plastic bag slowly. “Excuse me?” His hand shook, fingers almost hesitant as he turned the protected slip of paper over.

“The serial killer left a note. For you.” Donovan folded her arms over her chest, defensive. “Any idea why the Grim Reaper would do that?”

“No clue,” Sherlock muttered, distant as he looked down at the evidence. 

John bit down on his cheek, resisting a grin as he watched Sherlock read his message, shoulders jerking with shock.

“What does it say?” he asked, striding forward with mock concern. Sherlock’s head twitched, chin jutting sideways as he looked down at John with an almost guilty expression. He looked like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t, and John’s breath caught in his throat. Swallowing around the blockage, he affected a troubled, curious look. 

Sherlock’s eyes flashed over his face, doubt darkening their pale hue. Silent, he held out the evidence bag, releasing it into John’s grasp with shaking fingers. John made a show of reading it over, letting out a low whistle.

“Cryptic,” he commented, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. Just past the detective’s shoulder, he saw Lestrade. The DI was watching them closely, a frown digging deep furrows into his forehead. “What do you think it means?”

Sherlock stared at him, searching gaze roving over John’s face. John cocked his head to the side, smoothing a thumb along the edge of the evidence bag. 

“I don’t know,” the detective admitted, looking away and breaking the contact. John quivered, looking at his note again, wishing he could have signed his name. At his side, Sherlock expelled heat and enthusiastic energy, his features sharp as he rounded on Donovan. “I want to talk to the husband,” Sherlock said, repeating his earlier words. He held out a hand to John, taking the evidence bag when it was passed over.

“I’ve already taken his statement,” Donovan began. Sherlock cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand, the plastic bag crinkling.

“Not here—I want to talk to him at the station.”

Lestrade spoke up from behind them, confused. “Why can’t you just talk to him here?” 

“Because,” Sherlock said, rounding on the DI. “This woman has been dead for at least 12 hours, possibly a day. He just called it in a few hours ago? Seems suspicious.”

“He was away for work—” Sally’s protests died as Sherlock shot a glare her way.

“A likely story.” Sherlock straightened his shoulders. “I want to speak to him away from a familiar environment. Shake him up.” Pulling his mobile from a pocket, his fingers tapped quickly over the screen.

“The man just lost his wife!” Sally snapped, anger filtering through her reply. “Surely, the man deserves some compassion.”

Sherlock threw his hands into the air, exasperated, his anger palpable in the narrow hallway. Leaning against the wall, John folded his arms over his chest and ducked his head, hiding a smile. 

“Are you all _blind?”_ Sherlock shouted, making two officers near the front door jump. “Given the state of her marriage, and that she was _obviously_ cheating on her husband prior to the murder, do you really think we should rule him out as a suspect?”

Lestrade’s brow furrowed. “But—the MO. It’s exactly what the Reaper does—”

Sherlock cut him off with a low growl. “Ever heard of _copycats_ , Detective-Inspector?” His words were icy, devoid of warmth or mercy. “Jennifer Wilson is a crime correspondent for a local news channel.” He held up the phone, screen pointed toward the officers. “She was covering the Grim Reaper murders.” Lowering the device, he scowled. “Do you _really_ think her husband couldn’t repeat the MO? It’s not as if the crime scenes have been kept a secret.” His hands flexed, tension heavy in his body, every line of his tall form aggressive. “The Reaper has become quite the celebrity, in his own way. Copycats were bound to pop up eventually.”

Lestrade’s face flushed, his eyes skating away. Sally looked furious, her mouth tense. Striding forward, she grabbed the evidence bag from Sherlock’s hand, yanking it out of his grasp.

“I think you just want to draw attention away from _yourself_ ,” she snarled, shaking the bag. At Sherlock’s angry glare, she added, “The Reaper wrote a note _addressed to you_.” Her nose scrunched up, disgusted. “Not that I’m surprised, a serial killer writing some weird love note to the _freak.”_

Sherlock’s back went rigid, shoulders pulling down as he drew up to his full height. His mouth opened, ready to fling an eviscerating retort. The words never emerged. John stepped between them, body sideways, head toward Sally. 

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low, steady, leaving no room for challenge. When Sally opened her mouth, anger in her face, John lifted his head. “I said that’s _enough.”_ The words were a command, cold and empty. 

Sally’s mouth slammed shut, eyes blazing as she spun away. She moved down the hall with jerky, unsteady steps, body thrumming with tense rage. When John looked up, Lestrade was staring at him. John held his gaze, refusing to back down until the DI bowed his head, mouth twisting.

“I better talk to her.” He followed Donovan, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the hall, the two uniformed officers slipping into the living room where the husband sat on the couch.

Silence stretched out, John still standing parallel to Sherlock, his body stiff. When he looked up, finding the detective watching him with appraising eyes, a rush of possessiveness washed over him, making John’s breath catch.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, words strained. Almost reluctant. “You didn’t need to—” John smiled, reaching up to drag a thumb over the shallow cut on Sherlock’s bottom lip, cutting him off.

“Oh, but I did,” he replied, digging a short nail against the mark. Sherlock winced, eyes tightening at the corners, but he didn’t recoil. His lips parted, breath warm on John’s skin. The detective’s pulse, fast and uneven, transmitted through the torn flesh, into the pad of John’s thumb. Silence fell again, the two of them locked in a staredown, neither making a move with John still touching Sherlock’s mouth, the detective frozen in place. 

“Ah, excuse me, Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes—” the timid voice interrupted, and John turned to see one of the uniformed officers shifting uncomfortably as he looked at them. “We’re taking Mister Wilson to the station.” Turning his head, John looked into the living room, where another officer was leading Jennifer Wilson’s husband by a set of handcuffs. 

“Yes, we’re coming,” Sherlock replied, straightening his coat as he tore his eyes away from John. “Let’s go.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sally and Lestrade were waiting for them at the station. As he and Sherlock stepped into the DI’s office, John picked up the tense energy of the space, Donovan almost vibrating with her anger. Lestrade, perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, seemed reflective, his chin tilted down toward his chest with lowered brows. When Sherlock stalked up to him, bristling at Sally’s barely contained animosity, Lestrade looked at John. The stare was inscrutable, and John resisted the urge to bare his teeth at the distrust he saw in the other man’s eyes. 

“Well?” Sherlock snapped, impatient. “Can I talk to the husband now?” 

The sergeant hesitated, looking at Lestrade for confirmation. Catching the glance, Sherlock’s face darkened. 

“This is ridiculous,” he said, grinding the words out through his teeth. His hands flexed into fists, the movement catching John’s attention.

“Whatever you want, freak,” Donovan spoke in short, clipped tones, sneering at the detective as Sherlock attempted to ignore her. John shot her a look, imagining the ease with which he could snap her neck. Crush the fragile tendons and cartilage with his hands. He shivered, aching for the violence, drawing Sherlock’s eyes to him.

“Fine,” Donovan continued, reacting to Lestrade’s muttered warning. “Go easy on him.” She glared at Sherlock, turning to lead them out of the office, every step reluctant. “He’s had a fright.” 

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, stretching the word out with a sarcastic lilt. John grinned, hiding the expression behind a cough. He felt someone looking at him and glanced up to find Lestrade watching him with narrowed eyes. John raised his brows, cocking his head to the side as he followed Sherlock to the interrogation room. The DI frowned but remained silent.

The four of them stepped into the small room, dominated by a large table and three chairs. Mister Wilson sat in one, facing the two empty seats. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and he raised his head when they entered. His face was pale and miserable, cheeks streaked with the salty trails of dried tears. 

“Mister Wilson,” Sherlock began, speaking in a level, smooth tone as he slipped into one of the chairs. Lestrade dropped into the other, Donovan glaring at Sherlock for taking hers. She hovered by the one-way mirror behind the DI and Sherlock, face dark. Pressing his shoulders to the wall beside the door, John watched the scene unfold with amusement. 

“Sorry, who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Sherlock held out his hand as if to shake Mister Wilson’s, then paused, dropping his palm to the table with a wry smile. “Right, handcuffs, of course.” His voice sounded faintly smug, and John swallowed a laugh at the obvious ploy. Sherlock was establishing a power imbalance between himself and Jennifer Wilson’s husband, making the man’s already pale face blanche further. 

“What’s a ‘consulting detective’?” Mister Wilson asked, confusion filtering through his exhausted unease. Sherlock flicked his fingers.

“Not important. All you need to know is that I am involved in this case, and I have several questions I want to ask you.”

Mister Wilson’s eyes slid to the side, first to Lestrade, then Donovan, before flickering over John and back to Sherlock. “I—I already gave a statement…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his annoyance evident. “I am well aware, Mister Wilson,” he said, hands curling into fists. “But I prefer to ask my own questions if you don’t mind.” Mister Wilson looked to Lestrade again, who nodded. Jennifer Wilson’s husband swallowed, closed his eyes, and settled forward in the chair. Opening his eyes, he blinked at Sherlock.

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

Sherlock smirked, tapping a fingertip against the tabletop. “Wonderful. We’ll start simple. Your name?”

“Roger. Roger Wilson.” 

Sherlock nodded, looking at his hands as he scraped at something under a thumbnail. “Right, okay. Well, Roger, how about you tell us about earlier today.”

The man pulled in a loud breath, shifting in the chair. He licked his lips, looked nervous, and settled. “I came home from my business trip, and the…the front door was open.” He swallowed. “Not a lot, but definitely open. I was confused, it’s not like Jennifer—” his words caught, voice breaking. Stepping forward, Sally nudged a box of tissues toward him. Roger took one gratefully, pressing one to his face with cuffed hands before he went on. “I thought maybe there’d been a break-in. I went into the flat—”

“You didn’t think to call the police?” Sherlock interrupted, earning a glare from Donovan. Ignoring it, he leaned forward, hands splayed on the table. “You thought someone might have broken into your flat, and your first thought wasn’t to call it in?”

Roger’s brows lowered, fear in his eyes. “I—I don’t know, I guess I thought they might have already left?” The sentence ended as a pitiful question, the man shrinking back from Sherlock. 

Watching the detective, John felt a spike of possessive longing. Leaving it to burn in his stomach, he tilted his head, features schooled into a calm outward mask. His breathing quickened, and Donovan glanced his way. He kept his eyes on Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice was low, a warning, and the detective glanced at him, mouth turned down at the corners. But he relented, leaning back in the chair as he looked back at the man across from them.

“Fair enough, Mister Wilson. Please, continue.”

Roger swallowed again, biting his lip, fidgeting at the cuffs with tense hands. “After I went in, I called for Jennifer. There… there was no answer.” He closed his eyes, letting out a loud, shaking breath. “When I checked the bedroom, I f-found her.” The words stammered out, breaking in his throat. “She was already dead, and I… I…” he shook his head, covering his face with his restrained hands. “I just can’t believe it.” 

Sherlock looked bored, tracing a fingertip along the edge of the table. “Right,” he replied, sitting back with an unimpressed sigh. “And then you called it in.” His eyes narrowed, inspecting the man’s face. “Were you aware of your wife’s infidelity, Mister Wilson?”

The man’s shoulders hunched, his head rocking back as if from physical impact. His nostrils flared, eyes widening. “How dare you—” he began, voice shaking with fury. Sherlock leaned forward, ignoring Lestrade’s quietly cautioning words.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock's tone was harsh, impatient. “She was found _naked in bed_ , the body showing obvious signs of penetrative sexual activity.” He waved a hand, agitated. “You can’t tell me you’re stupid enough to miss that, as well as all the other signs that your wife was cheating on you long before she was murdered.”

The man lunged to his feet, tears running down his face as it twisted with fury. “Shut up!” Mister Wilson screeched, reaching for Sherlock blindly. “Don’t you say those things about my Jenny!” 

Getting to his feet, Sherlock sidestepped the clumsy attack with ease, sneering. Before he could reply, Lestrade was grabbing at him and tugging him towards the door, Donovan stepping forward to comfort and restrain the distressed husband. John followed as Lestrade pushed Sherlock into the hall, slipping through the door when the DI whirled on the consulting detective.

“That was out of line, Sherlock!” Lestrade was furious, voice shaking with controlled anger. “That man just lost his wife—” He held up a hand, silencing Sherlock’s angry protests. “I don’t care if you think he might be a suspect, that is _not_ how we do things here! We have no evidence of his guilt, and what you did in there,” he jabbed a finger at the closed door. “Was unacceptable.” He scowled when Sherlock glared down at him, silent. “Do you understand?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, his mouth working angrily. Without a word, he spun on his heel, stalking down the hallway. Lestrade shot John a look.

“He was out of line,” the DI said, almost desperate. John shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. At his silence, Lestrade frowned. Something passed over his face, but he did not voice whatever it was, and John turned away to follow Sherlock.


	13. Baby, it's Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you wanna make me bad,  
>  make me bad.  
> and I like it like that,  
> and I like it like that._
> 
> _you wanna make me bad,  
>  pay me back.  
> said I like it like that,  
> said I like it like that._
> 
> _I am, like, begging for you baby.  
>  makes you wanna party,  
> wanna wake up.  
> baby, it's violence, violence,  
> baby, it's violence.  
> but you can't see what I see,  
> you can't see what I see._
> 
> _‘cause you, ha, ha,  
>  you feed off hurting me,  
> off hurting me,  
> oh, me, oh, me_
> 
> **_violence_ \- grimes**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a character being drugged against their will. Also, some kinda violent-ish sex.

Lestrade’s words echoed in his head as Sherlock’s legs carried him through the police station, body twitching and aching with fury, and just a hint of embarrassment. Embarrassment not for his own behaviour, but for Lestrade speaking down to him in front of John. Fury for Sally’s relentless, mocking words. 

He wanted to tear them apart. Wanted to rip and rend his own skin, show them how wrong they were. 

Palms first, Sherlock slammed into the door of a single-occupant washroom, letting it strike against the wall. Stopping in front of the sinks, he planted his hands on the edge of the counter, fingers curled tight on the metal. Stared at his reflection, taking in the pale fury in his face, the dark cast of his eyes. Scowling, he turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto his cheeks. When he looked up again, the cuts on his lip had re-opened, leaking sluggish blood. Sherlock smeared his thumb through it, painting red over his mouth.

With a jolt, he was thrown into his Mind Palace. The space no longer reflected the growing familiarity of the hallway at St. Bart’s Hospital. Instead, it was dark, lit with strobing lights and flashes of colour. 

Hands brushed his hips, arms sliding around his waist as John pressed against his back. “Miss me?” he breathed, teeth scraping the side of Sherlock’s neck. He tilted his head back, eyes sliding shut, John a black haze in the heavy air.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open as reality filtered through. Looking in the mirror, he spotted John—the _real_ John—standing a few feet behind him. Water dripping from his face, Sherlock turned, gaze scraping over John’s body like a visceral touch. 

“Where were you yesterday?” The words emerged like an accusation. His heart began to race, thudding an uneven rhythm against his ribcage. 

Head tilted to the side, John leaned back against the wall. Looking at his hands, he smiled. “I told you.” He raised his head to look at Sherlock. “I had plans.” 

Sherlock stared at him. His pulse drummed in his ears, a discordant off-beat call to war in his head. In an abrupt shift, he strode forward, planting a hand against the wall, leaned down toward John’s face. 

“What _plans?_ ” he hissed. John’s chin jerked up, defiant.

“Not sure that’s any of your business,” he replied, voice soft.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together with an audible noise. His hand shot out, long fingers curling around John’s arm. “Tell me.” His voice was insistent, hard, the words spat through bared teeth. His hand tightened, nails digging into skin. John’s lips twitched, curving in a small, disarming smile.

“Is that an order?” he asked, brow rising. The small smile was a stark contrast to his dangerous tone. 

_ “Tell me,” _ Sherlock repeated. He punctuated the demand with a shake, the hand against the wall curling into a tight fist over the tiles. 

John’s smile widened. Reaching out, he slid his palm along Sherlock’s chest, fingers catching in the artfully placed holes in the shirt’s fabric. Sherlock’s lips parted, a shaky breath slipping out. The touch burned over his skin, setting nerve endings alight. 

Tilting his head to the side again, John gripped the material with a sudden twist of his wrist, using the shirt to gain leverage as he yanked. Pulling Sherlock off-balance, John spun and slammed the detective against the wall. The force was hard enough to make Sherlock’s legs buckle, and he went to his knees with wide eyes, vision obscured by sudden flashes of shock. He stared up at John, blinking, dazed. A hot surge of adrenaline roared through his veins, buzzing in his ears. 

“Since when do I listen to you?” John breathed, the words making Sherlock flinch. Dropping to a squat in front of the man kneeling on the ground, John reached out and pushed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock resisted the urge to cringe away, instead tilting closer, almost without intention. “You think you can growl and snarl, and I’ll just tell you whatever you want to hear?” Clenching his hand, John gripped a handful of soft curls, tugging until Sherlock’s face angled toward his. “Well?” he pressed, his inhalation warm against Sherlock’s face. _“Do you?”_

Sherlock’s breathing stuttered out, hands rising to pluck at John’s shoulders and arm. John tensed his body, planting his feet against the floor in preparation. But Sherlock didn’t try to push him away. They locked into a stare, the space between them thick and charged. 

His eyes, as if magnetized, dropped to John’s lips, his breathing quickening. His body felt tight and hot, tense with adrenaline and yearning. At the shift in focus, John groaned, surging forward to crush their mouths together. Sherlock stiffened before he melted under the assault, letting John push his tongue past his lips until Sherlock could taste him in his throat. 

Pawing at John’s shoulders, Sherlock tugged until they were standing, John pressing him into the wall with coercive control. Sherlock’s lip was bleeding, the metallic taste tinting his mouth with the bite of iron. John bit at his neck, darkening bruises which had barely started to fade from earlier that night, and Sherlock made a soft, destitute noise. The sound seemed to drive John over the edge, and he began backing Sherlock toward the bathroom door until his spine met with the wood. 

When John reached around to lock it, Sherlock felt a surge of need tear through his body, making his legs shake, his knees weak. Before John could stop him, he sank to the floor, drawing his hands down John’s thighs, nails catching in the worn fabric of old jeans. He tilted his head forward, mouthing at the hard flesh beneath the thick material. Lifting his eyes, Sherlock fumbled for the fly, finding the zipper and yanking it down, shoving the jeans halfway down John’s hips, to the tops of his thighs as John’s breathing quickened. One hand gripped Sherlock by the hair, the detective swaying forward to press his nose and mouth into the soft material of John’s dark red pants. 

“Fuck,” John gasped, planting his free hand against the door. His blue eyes were dark, mouth open with lips parted, slicked by his tongue darting out. “Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock peered up at him from under dark lashes, feeling his face grow warm beneath John’s intense focus.

“I want you in my mouth,” he replied, digging his fingers into John’s left hip. “I want you to fuck my mouth and come down my throat.” 

John swore, his curse cutting off in a low moan while Sherlock mouthed at the skin above his pants, pushing his tongue under the waistband, toward hot flesh. “Go on,” he panted, tugging a handful of curls. “Open your mouth.”

Sherlock obliged, wincing, the motion pulling at his still bleeding lip. He looked up at John, blood trickling down his chin, heavily-lidded eyes dark with lust. John cursed again. Pulling himself out of his underwear, he stroked the length of his cock once, twice, bringing it to full erection. Dropping his eyes, Sherlock stared at it, taking in the length and thick width, the red, dripping head. Swallowing, his mouth watering, he leaned forward to lick a drop of pre-come from the slit, eyes sliding closed with a moan. 

Above him, John let out a choked sound, and Sherlock took him in his mouth. The taste was musky, heady—a stronger, tangible version of the faint smell of John himself. He tongued along the underside, tracing over the head, hollowed his cheeks.

John hummed, grip in Sherlock’s hair alternating between harsh tugs and gentle strokes. The pulling made Sherlock’s eyes water, the brief pain soothed by the petting. Pulling back, he wrapped his lips around the head of John’s cock and sucked hard, making John muffle a shout in his arm. Looking up, Sherlock found John staring down at him, cheeks red with pleasure, his eyes half-open. Catching Sherlock’s look, he smirked.

“You want me to fuck your mouth, baby?” he said, panting the ragged, sneering statement. Sherlock nodded, swirling his tongue along the hard flesh in his mouth until John tightened his hold and snapped his hips forward, hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat and making him gag. He swallowed down the urge to retch and focused on relaxing his jaw, letting John plunge into his mouth, over and over. The rhythm was aggressive, almost punishing, and tears trickled down Sherlock’s cheeks from the force, spit running from the corner of his mouth.

With a guttural noise, John came, spilling down Sherlock’s throat in a bitter pulse. Sherlock swallowed once, twice, fighting back the urge to choke. John’s cock, spent and softening, slipped out of his mouth, Sherlock following to lap at the last leaking drops of fluid before John tucked it back into his pants. 

He stared at Sherlock, breathing in loud, uneven gasps. Sherlock licked his lips, smearing blood over his tongue. Rough and clumsy, John grabbed his arms and tugged the detective to his feet. Sherlock went, stumbling back when John turned to press him into the corner, hand fumbling, demanding, pushing into Sherlock’s tight jeans. Fingers wrapping around Sherlock’s erection, he squeezed, making Sherlock’s knees threaten to buckle. John propped him up with his free hand, arm around his waist, shoving jeans and underclothes down to reach more of the hot, hard flesh in Sherlock’s pants. 

“John…” he breathed, head falling forward until his forehead rested on John’s shoulder. He was incredibly hard, body aching with need, and it didn’t take long before he was trembling, breathing heavily against John’s shirt. 

“That’s it,” John coaxed, voice a low croon. His arm tightened around Sherlock’s waist, his teeth scraping over the skin beneath his ear. “That’s it, baby, come for me.” He nipped, tonguing at the area and Sherlock’s rough breathing sobbed out. With a cry, his body jerking, Sherlock spilled in his pants, over John’s stroking hand. He gasped John’s name again, pressing his face into his sweaty neck, tremours rolling through him in the aftershock. 

“Good boy.” John wiped his hands on a piece of paper towel he tore from the nearby dispenser, fingers smoothing over Sherlock’s neck and shoulders. “Beautiful.” He fisted fingers in Sherlock’s hair, bringing their mouths together in a hard kiss. “You’re mine,” he breathed, hands shifting to curl possessively around Sherlock’s skull.

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, John’s mouth hot against his jaw. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sitting in Lestrade’s office, Sherlock pressed his hands together beneath his chin, watching officers working through the glass. John stood behind him, his sporadic, inferno-hot touches to the back of Sherlock’s neck a burning reminder of his presence. 

He felt exhausted and exhilarated all at once, crotch sticky and damp from the mess John had created of him in his own pants. John’s fingers brushed the nape of his neck again, and he shivered.

The door clicked and swung open to admit Lestrade and Donovan. The sergeant gave Sherlock a wide berth when John fixed his eyes on her face, expression impassive. She moved to stand beside Lestrade after he dropped into his chair.

“Well?” Sherlock broke the silence. “Did you get anything?”

The officers exchanged looks, Lestrade heaving a sigh before he leaned over the desk. Sherlock’s lip curled at the apologetic expression on Lestrade’s face.

“You’re letting him go,” he said, cutting the DI off before he could speak. Lestrade tipped his head in a slow nod, and Sherlock shot to his feet. “Of _course_ you are.” Fury roiling in his head, he turned and strode from the office, pausing only to lock a hand around John’s arm, dragging him along. The other man followed. There was a smirk on his face as he fell into step at Sherlock’s side.

“What now?” he asked, stroking a soothing hand along Sherlock’s arm after shaking off his hold. 

“We wait.” Sherlock glared at an officer in their path until he moved, shifting to the side. “There will be an autopsy for Jennifer Wilson, and maybe we will have more answers.” He and John stepped through the front door of NSY, into the cold air of night. Glancing at his phone, Sherlock saw two missed texts from Lestrade and that it was half past midnight. 

Stopping at the sidewalk, he scrubbed a hand over his face, swaying with sudden exhaustion. The case was continuing to take a toll, tearing him apart in ways he never experienced with other investigations. Pulling in a loud breath to steady himself, Sherlock opened his eyes to find John reaching out to grip his face, fingers stroking over his jaw and bottom lip.

“You need sleep.” 

Sherlock shook his head, desperation sinking teeth into his bones. His head spun, facts of the case twisting through his brain with little sense or connective force. He dug his thumbs against his temples and winced, clenching his teeth together.

“Can’t,” he ground out, eyes shut tight. “There’s too much I have to figure out.” His eyes flew open, pupils widening as they adjusted to the dark. “Ten people are dead, John, I can’t just _stop!”_

John moved closer, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s upper arms. The grip was firm, aggressive, and Sherlock fell silent, looking down at the other man.

“It’s not a request,” John said. His voice was hard. Sherlock blinked, a flush working its way up his chest and over his face. His body responded to John’s intense proximity despite a flicker of unease at the darkness lurking behind the blue eyes. When Sherlock just stared, lips parted, John smirked. Leaned up to press a slow, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Come with me.” The words were soft, coaxing. Double-edged. Sherlock let himself drift closer, drawn in by John’s authoritative pull.

“Okay,” he replied, quiet, pliable. John’s smirk shifted to a grin, edged with smug victory. 

“Good boy.” Raising a hand, John beckoned to a cab. It drifted toward the curb, and John took Sherlock’s hand, guiding him toward and inside the vehicle. John slipped in beside, giving an address Sherlock vaguely recognized as John’s. 

He closed his eyes, sensing the faint flicker of streetlights over his face while the cab moved away from the curb into late-night traffic. His mind roamed, leading him through a miasmatic swirl of dark and absence. It was not quite his mind palace, his body far too exhausted to put much effort into projecting the familiar corridors and rooms. 

His earlier rage, fierce and palpable, started to fade, dissipating into a limb-heavy sense of fatigue. Facts and thoughts flowed around him, discordant and disjointed. Sherlock grabbed weakly, everything slipping between his fingers like smoke. His face tensed, eyes tight, and he made a low, pathetic sound, pain throbbing in his temples.

“Shh.” Hands brushed his shoulder, stroking the side of his neck. “Sherlock, wake up.”

His eyes flashed open, filled with the sight of John leaning over him. He was standing in the open door of the cab, tilted toward Sherlock. Blinking, Sherlock looked around, disoriented. The cab driver was watching him, eyes uneasy. He looked back to John, blinked again, and took the hand held out to him. John pulled him from the cab, nodding to the driver. Sherlock swayed on the curb, anchored by John’s arm around his waist, tucking him against his side. 

They crossed the sidewalk, pausing in front of the vibrant blue door of John’s flat. Sherlock tilted his head down, resting his cheek against the top of John’s head while John dug out his keys, fumbling them into the lock as he kept Sherlock balanced. 

“Come on,” he urged, coaxing, helping Sherlock through the door, closing it behind them. John steered Sherlock to the bathroom, flicking on the light. He stripped Sherlock with meticulous ease before herding Sherlock toward the shower. 

Sherlock followed John’s guidance, head pulsing with tension and a sick sense of lost control. John pushed him into the shower stall and turned on the taps, water hitting against Sherlock’s bent head, soaking into his curls and dripping down his face. He closed his eyes, pressing his palms against the wall. Static roared in his ears, and he winced. 

“Get yourself cleaned up,” John said, pressing something slick into Sherlock’s hand. Opening his eyes, he saw a bar of soap. Tilting his head, he looked at John, eyes wide and helpless beneath the onslaught of his over-stimulated brain. John pressed a finger to his bottom lip, making pain jump through Sherlock’s body at the reminder of the wound. “Scrub,” he ordered, waiting with crossed arms until Sherlock obliged, running the soap up his chest and over his stomach. John nodded, a pleased look flashing over his face.

“Good.” He stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s collar bone. “I’ll see you when you’re done.” Turning, he left Sherlock alone in the shower. Sherlock looked after him with uncertain eyes before scrubbing at his skin with the bar of soap, watching suds trail over his legs and down the drain.

Setting aside the bar, he looked at the other shower products. Picked up a bottle of shampoo and lathered it through his hair until the curls were heavy with product, sticking up in clumps. He ducked his head under the stream. Stared at his feet. Listened to a dull roar in his ears that running water and gathering steam could not obscure. 

Once his hair was clean and rinsed, Sherlock shut off the taps and stepped out into the humid bathroom. He tugged a towel off the rack, ran it over his body, and wrapped it loosely around his waist, letting it sit low on his hips. He moved into the living room, found it empty. Panic rose in his chest. Threatened to spill from his mouth in an incoherent flash of noise until John stepped out of the kitchen.

“Better?”

Sherlock nodded, feeling strange, suddenly exposed in just a towel. The feeling increased as John moved closer, tracing his fingertips up Sherlock’s sides, over his chest, and along his throat. 

“Mm, gorgeous,” John breathed. He grabbed at Sherlock’s wet curls, pulling his head back. “You smell like me.” John’s pupils widened, blown-out with lust. Sherlock closed his eyes, anticipation making his skin rise in goosebumps. But John didn’t lean forward, didn’t kiss along his neck like he hoped. Instead, he stood there, holding Sherlock in place. Sherlock opened his eyes, and John was staring at him, roving over exposed skin with a hungry gaze. The sight made him shiver, and he lifted a hand, grabbing at John’s shirt. 

John grinned, held him in the same position for a moment longer before he released his hand, dropping it back to his side. 

“I put your clothes in the wash. There’s something for you to wear on the couch.” John jerked his chin toward the sofa, drawing Sherlock’s gaze to a t-shirt and loose pants folded on the cushion. “Get changed, I’ll make you some tea.”

John moved away into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to pull the clothes on. As he shrugged the t-shirt over his head, his mind shifted back online, the earlier dragging weight of exhaustion sinking into a dull background hum, revitalized by the shower. He paced the living room, moving from window to entryway, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides with restless energy. 

His head buzzed with ecstatic energy, making his movements jerky. Stopping on the area rug, he dug his fingertips against his forehead, over his closed eyes, and bit down on his split lip. The pain brought sharp, sudden clarity to his thoughts, and he sighed, focus falling into place.

“John, I—” he began, falling silent as he turned to find John watching him. Leaning against the open arch to the kitchen, his face was shadowed, body backlit by the kitchen light. Holding Sherlock’s gaze, he moved slowly into the sitting room, movements controlled, predatory. When he held out a mug of tea, the action was a startling disconnect from the prowling gait of John’s approach.

“Drink it.” John’s voice made the words a command, and Sherlock took the cup without thinking, bringing it to his lips and sipping at the liquid before he could formulate any resistance. The tea was hot, scalding, and made his tongue feel thick. A bitter taste burned at the back of his throat, and he made a face. He looked at John over the rim, considering, and moved to set the mug down.

John caught his wrist, making the dark liquid slosh dangerously close to the edge. 

“No,” he said, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face. “Finish it. All of it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, and John’s fingers tightened. Eyes locked, Sherlock drank the beverage down, John’s stare boring into him until it was empty. Moving slowly, as if John were a wild animal, easily spooked, Sherlock set the mug on the coffee table, taking a step back. John let him, dropping his hold and watching as Sherlock began to pace to the room again. He felt John’s eyes on his back, following his progress as he crossed to the window. 

“You need to sleep,” John said, repeating his words from the station. Sherlock shook his head, blinking when the movement made his vision swim.

“I can’t.” His bare feet moved over hardwood to soft carpet and back, circling past the kitchen. “I have to think. I need to think.” He paused, a rush of dizziness making him stumble. The awareness he had managed to regain from the shower seemed to be ebbing away, but the heavy feeling sinking into his limbs didn’t feel the same as his earlier exhaustion.

“That’s enough of that.” John was behind him again, hand brushing over the hard ridge of Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock turned, clumsy, his limbs betraying him, leaving him graceless. 

“I can’t—” he began, stopping when the words emerged slurred, his lips numb. His brow furrowed, and he looked down at John. “I feel—strange.” 

John stared up at him, face blank. His hand locked around Sherlock’s bicep. “You need sleep,” he repeated, fingers tightening. Sherlock frowned at him, swaying on his feet. He felt disconnected from his body, vision swimming, the edges beginning to dim. Sluggish, his brain slotted the information together, realization ticking through too late, too slow.

“You—” he swallowed, tongue heavy and almost foreign in his mouth. “You drugged me?”

John shifted his legs, planting his feet as Sherlock’s knees buckled. Hands caught him under the arms, and his forehead slumped against John’s chest. “That’s it,” John murmured, looking at Sherlock’s face after the detective managed to roll his head to the side and peer up at him. “Go to sleep.” 

His vision went dark. 


	14. With You, I'm an Animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I want you like  
>  you're mine tonight  
> I want it all.  
> do you bite?  
> well, so do I._
> 
> _yeah, I'm an animal.  
>  you be the prey,  
> and I'll be the predator  
> I want it all._
> 
> _I can't be tamed,  
>  I'm a cold blood killer.  
> with you,  
> I'm an animal_
> 
> _**animal** \- XOV_

Sherlock collapsed into his arms, eyes rolling up and back, then shut, cheek sliding against John's chest. Planting his feet under the dead weight, John bent to one knee, grunting with the effort of shifting Sherlock's limp form over his right shoulder. Straightening, he walked in slow, measured steps to the stairs, mounting them with careful balance. Sherlock's loose arms draped down his back, drawing a shiver of excitement, making John’s breath catch. 

_Lovely._

There was a low, rumbling noise in the chest bent over his shoulder, and John stroked a hand along Sherlock's spine. The movement bordered between soothing and possessive, John's wide grin a white slash in the dark. Pressing an arm into a half-closed door, he carried Sherlock into his bedroom, placing him with agonizing care on the mattress. Pushing and pulling, John arranged the unconscious man beneath the sheets, Sherlock's limbs heavy and pliant throughout. 

John stood at the edge of the bed. Looked down at the man curled beneath his blue comforter, he felt a territorial desire, almost a need, to tear him apart. Bring Sherlock to pieces and make his mark on every separate fragment, a man undone. Hand shaking, he reached out, grabbed a handful of hair and yanked. Sherlock whined in his sleep, face tightening around the closed eyes, a whimper contorting his scarred lip. 

John smiled, letting the hand drop. The urge to destroy lingered, softened, and drifted apart, the cruel clench of his fingers at his sides loosening. He turned away and left the room, not bothering to moderate the force or noise of his steps as he descended the stairs. Sherlock would be oblivious to the world for hours yet, and John's footsteps would do little to change that. 

Crossing the main floor, he slipped into a small laundry room, leaving the door open behind him. He knelt, digging at a small pile of clothing on the floor. Finding Sherlock's coat, he searched the pockets, pulling out several objects. 

A notebook, filled with cryptic, half-coherent notes. A box of nicotine patches, almost empty. An unopened pack of cigarettes, each accounted for. Sherlock's mobile phone, the screen lit up with several missed messages and calls from Gregory Lestrade. John pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Sherlock wouldn't need it anytime soon. 

His fingers encountered something unfamiliar, smooth and soft, slippery. Frowning, John pulled out an evidence bag, his note to Sherlock sitting inside. He squinted, scratching at an eyebrow as he wondered when Sherlock could have possibly had opportunity to take it. Shaking his head, he set it aside and reached into the last pocket. 

He touched cold metal. Lips twitching in a half-smile, John held the scalpel up to the light, staring at the blood flaked along the blade. 

"Oh, Sherlock," he murmured, digging his thumbnail against the handle. "You naughty boy." 

Setting the blade aside, John gathered up the clothing beneath the coat, emptied various miscellaneous items from the jean pockets, and tossed them into the washing machine with Sherlock’s shirt and underpants. Once the washer was rumbling away, he bent and grabbed the coat, draping it over the sofa on his way through the sitting room. 

John stopped on the rug, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. Above, Sherlock would still be asleep, curled beneath John's sheets, oblivious to the world as it passed by. Thinking of the man's helplessness made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention, hands curling. Lust spiked in his body.

Biting his lip, John forced it away. Now was the time for control, not indulgence. 

He shook his head, intentionally relaxing his body one limb at a time until the longing subsided. Breathing slowly, taking long, measured breaths, John mounted the stairs, jaw clenched with controlled pressure. By the time he stepped into the bedroom, eyes sweeping over Sherlock's prone form, the covetous desire in his head was distant, reigned in. 

Moving past the bed, pausing only to trace the blunt edge of the scalpel's handle over Sherlock's exposed neck, John crossed to the closet, squatting as he pushed it open. He dug around in the back, under clothing and boxes, retrieving a small, opaque plastic case. He flipped it open, looking inside.

An assortment of scalpels, some with dried blood on the blades, glinted as faint light reached into the closet from the open bedroom door. John trailed a finger over one, eyes sharp, focused, his face impassive. 

He placed the scalpel retrieved from Sherlock's coat with the others, pausing to take in the sight. Ten razor-sharp metal blades, each with their own unique memory. A ghost of a smile traced his lips, faded, and John closed the case. Shoved it back into its hiding place and closed the closet. 

Turning to look over the man in the bed, he approached with predatory steps, bending until they were face to face. Sherlock's eyes moved beneath closed, shadowed lids, his mouth parted, warm breath moving slow and even over his open lips. John tilted forward, tasted the air from Sherlock's lungs, tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, a gentle motion followed by a flick of his tongue over the thin scab from his earlier bite. 

Sherlock shifted, still deep asleep, hand sliding off the mattress to hang over the edge. John traced a finger over the faint blue veins mapped over the back, Sherlock's skin warm to the touch. 

Pushing to his feet, John stepped back, fighting against another violent urge. His pants tightened at the crotch, and he shifted, uncomfortable. 

_Control. Control._

He turned away, moving with jerky steps out of the room and back down the stairs. Grabbing his coat, he shrugged it over his shoulders, checking the pockets for keys, phone, and wallet. When Sherlock woke, he would be nauseous. Unsteady. John would have to feed him, ensure his strength for his plans. He heaved a sigh, frustration on his brow. Despite his career, caretaking was not something he enjoyed. Having experienced the weakness of his own humanity, lying half-dead in a military field hospital, the needs of others revolted him. But this was necessary. John needed Sherlock reliant on him—needed his trust, blind and without question. And that meant coaxing, and care, and effort. 

Looking at his watch, John was reassured that he had plenty of time before the drugs broke down enough for Sherlock to wake. He slipped out of the flat, locking the door and pocketing the keys. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Returning from Tesco with a shopping bag in the crook of his arm, John paused at the door. Setting the bag on the steps, he dug for his keys when something buzzed in his back pocket. Holding the keys in one hand, he pulled out Sherlock's phone. The screen was lit up with a call from an unlisted number. John declined the call, switching the device off before pocketing it again. 

When he turned back to the door, a noise made him stop, turning around again in time to see a black car pulling up to the curb. The windows were tinted dark, the inside obscured. John stepped toward it as the driver's side window slid down, and a young woman with long dark hair leaned out 

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson." Her voice was firm, calm, and John grinned. 

"Why?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She was fetching, but something sharp lingered in her eyes, tipping him off to potential danger. 

"Just get in." 

John cocked an eyebrow, planting his weight more firmly on his feet. "I don't think so." 

The woman stared, calculating. He could feel the way she measured him and wondered if he came up short. John bared his teeth in a wider grin, upper lip pulling back until it resembled more of a snarl. 

The window slid back into place, there was a pause, and the back door closest to John swung open. A man stepped out, tall with receding reddish hair. He was dressed in a sharp overcoat and pinstriped trousers, leaning on, of all things, a black umbrella. 

John looked him over, found him lacking, and dropped the grin. "Can I help you?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. Something of the predator passed over his face, and the man narrowed his eyes.

"You should get in the car, Doctor Watson," the man replied. John tilted his chin up, eyelids dropping to half-mast. 

"I'd really rather not." John mimicked the man's bland tone, an edge of steel beneath the casual words. The man's face darkened. 

"Fine," he said. "Have it your way." 

"I often do," John quipped, making the man frown. 

Silence stretched out, a chill drizzle beginning to fall. The man made no attempt to open his umbrella, and John glanced at it, re-evaluating its presence. He shifted on his feet, tightening his arms over his chest. 

"Something I can do for you?" he asked, pasting a benevolent smile on his face. 

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said, and John's brows rose. 

"What about him?"

The man's mouth twitched, pulling down at the corners. "You've been working with him as of late, have you not?" The man pulled a notebook from his pocket, carefully shielding it from the rain as he flipped through. "Since the eighth Grim Reaper murder." 

John shrugged, arms still locked together. "If you already know, why are you asking?" 

The man looked up, his expression sharp. "Because I need to know _why."_ At John's questioning head tilt, he added, "Why are you working with Sherlock Holmes?" 

John spread his hands, mouth tilting to the side in a grimace. "Why not?" 

"I have a right to know," the man snapped, shoving the notebook back into his pocket with a harsh movement. 

"I doubt that." John studied the man, eyes narrowed. The man returned the scrutiny, his mouth a hard, thin line.

"Sherlock Holmes is _my_ business, and, so is anything he does, and anyone he consorts with." 

John laughed. It was a sudden, rough, barking noise that made the man jump. Regaining composure, he stared at John, squinting as John replied. 

"I really don't see how that could possibly be true." John's tone was closer to a growl than anything else, and he dropped his arms to his sides, fingers extended. The man lifted his chin, defensive, watching John's shoulders dip toward him with blatant aggression. 

"Doctor Watson—" he began, but fell silent as John took a step forward, hostility evident in every line of his tensed body. 

"You should leave," John said, voice dropping to a low rumble. The man moved as if to retreat, then held his ground. He drew himself to his full height, taller than Sherlock by John's estimate, and fixed the advancing man with a hard stare.

"You should rethink what you're doing, John Watson." The sound of his full name failed to give John pause, and he strode forward until he and the man were inches apart. John's head tilted back, and he glared up into the man's face. 

"And what, pray tell, am I meant to be doing?" John asked, soft and deadly. The man stared down at him, head twitching back with distaste. 

"I'm not certain," the man replied. His face twisted with anger. "But, rest assured—I _will_ find out." 

John's lips drew back in a sneering grin, and he grabbed the man's hand. The man gave a violent start, moving to pull away, but John gripped hard, shaking the hand in a mock show of polite greeting.

"I look forward to it," he breathed, giving the hand a final squeeze before releasing his hold. He stepped back, the man's eyes following him warily. "Now, I think you should leave before I call the cops."

The man fixed him with a look, appraising, some new recognition in their depths. "Friendly with the police, are you?" 

John just smiled, refusing to answer. When the man lingered, he flapped his hands in a little shooing motion. The man's face twisted, upper lip curling.

“I could make you tell me,” the man said, the threat clear. John grinned, an astounded expression on his face.

“I’d love to see you try,” he replied, the unspoken challenge evident in his fisted hands and vibrating body. The man hesitated, face darkening, but his mouth remained closed, and he slid back into the car. The door slammed behind, loud in the rain, and the vehicle rumbled away, disappearing around the corner. 

Watching it go, John's smile fell from his lips.


	15. A Voice of Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for mental and emotional manipulation and gaslighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _don't fret, precious, I'm here—step away from the window  
>  go back to sleep, lay your head down, child  
> I won't let the boogeyman come  
> counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums_
> 
> _pay no mind to the rabble, pay no mind to the rabble  
>  head down, go to sleep to the rhythm of the war drums  
> pay no mind what other voices say  
> they don't care about you like I do, like I do_
> 
> _safe from pain, and truth, and choice, and other poison devils  
>  see, they don't give a fuck about you like I do  
> just stay with me, safe and ignorant  
> go back to sleep, go back to sleep_
> 
> _lay your head down child, I won't let the boogeyman come  
>  count the bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums  
> pay no mind to the rabble, pay no mind to the rabble  
> head down, go to sleep to the rhythm of the war drums_
> 
> _I'll be the one to protect you from your enemies and all your demons  
>  I'll be the one to protect you from a will to survive, and a voice of reason  
> I'll be the one to protect you from your enemies and your choices, son  
> one and the same, I must isolate you—isolate and save you from yourself_  
> 
> 
> _**pet** \- a perfect circle_

**December 4**

His limbs felt weighted down, body sinking through John’s arms, slipping past the floor and falling. Black smoke, black waters, black rising up to consume him. 

Sherlock sat up, hard floor carpeted in red beneath him. The walls of his Mind Palace rose, looming, no longer a comfort but a prison, stretching and twisting until everything was skewed. He lay back again, head an immense weight on his shoulders. The ceiling warped, concave then convex, rippling like an endless wave. It gave the impression of drifting, sinking beneath the tide of the sea, breathing air turned to water. 

When he opened his mouth, nothing emerged, black smoke drifting into his lungs. 

“Freak.”

The word resonated in the air, painted across the ceiling and cracking walls. 

_“Freak.”_

Sherlock shut his eyes, biting down on his lip, clenched his hands into fists. 

**“Freak.”**

The letters burned against the back of his eyes, flickering, blazing. Cutting into his flesh and drawing blood. 

He sat up, lunging forward, a scream crawling and dying in his throat, muffled by a hand over his mouth. 

“Shh, Sherlock, shh.” 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. His surroundings were hazy, indistinct. Pain lanced through his skull, and he tilted to the side with a groan, strong hands cradling him close to a warm body. He lay still, cheek pillowed against something both hard and soft, pulling in deep, quavering breaths. His vision cleared, taking in an unfamiliar room, a pale blue wall. With the clarity came formidable fatigue. His head lolled, too cumbersome to lift, tilting back to look up at the man leaning over him. 

John’s gaze fixed on his face, fingers brushing through Sherlock’s hair, where he rested with his cheek on John’s thighs. Lethargic, muscles torpid, Sherlock blinked. His mind worked sluggishly, taking agonizing seconds to remember how he had come to be in this current situation.

“Here.” A glass of water appeared in front of his face, disrupting his fragile thought process. Shifting, Sherlock sat up, slow and stiff, John guiding him to lean against his side. Sherlock took the water with a shaking hand, John offering two tablets to his mouth. “Paracetamol,” he explained, raising a brow at Sherlock’s look of distrust. He pressed one against Sherlock’s mouth, face darkening. “Open.” The word was a command. In Sherlock’s weakened state, nausea rolling through his body and pain in his head, he gave in. His lips parted, and John shoved the tablets onto his tongue. He tapped a finger to the edge of the glass, letting the sharp sound ring out in the shadowed room. 

Sherlock sipped the water, swallowing the tablets. He closed his eyes and John took the glass, setting it aside, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“How do you feel?” John’s voice murmured against his cheek, lips brushing the skin. It was almost a comfort, and Sherlock clenched his jaw, memories of before flooding through his head.

“Like someone drugged me,” he replied, trying and failing to make his voice sound sharp. What emerged was a pitiable whisper from his dry, cottony mouth. A hand stroked over his arm, fingers encircling the subtle swell of his bicep. 

“You didn’t leave me much choice,” John said. The words were violent, and Sherlock resisted the urge to flinch. John’s grip tightened. Softened. Stroked soothing lines down to his wrist, fingers curling loosely around his. “You needed sleep.” 

“I needed to _think_.” This time, the words held force, Sherlock’s head snapping up to glare at the man beside him. “You had no right—” John’s hand covered his mouth, palm against his lips, and he fell silent. 

John’s eyes glittered in the dark.

“I told you…” his voice was low, hard, deadly, and he grabbed Sherlock by the wrists. “You needed sleep.” With a twist, he shoved the detective onto his back into the mattress, pinning his legs with his knees. “You wouldn’t listen.” With Sherlock staring up at him, eyes wide and wild, John tilted down, nosing at his cheek, eyes sliding shut. “You should listen to me.” His breath tickled against his jaw, and Sherlock shuddered. John mouthed at his ear, speaking in a softer, huskier tone. “I know what’s best for you, Sherlock. I promise.” 

John’s lips moved against his neck, gentle pressure and scraping teeth. The sensations were jarring, a tender contrast to his possessive words. Sherlock found himself tilting his head back, eyes closing, skin burning as a flush worked its way up to his chest, into his face. A soft, pathetic mewling sound dropped from his mouth, made him cringe with embarrassment, and John groaned in his ear. A hand slipped over his stomach, beneath the t-shirt, stroking along the line of collar bones. Sherlock turned his head, seeking contact, comfort. Found John’s mouth, teeth and tongue, rapturous against his lips and skin. 

John shifted, and Sherlock’s stomach lurched. He jerked his head away, gasping, John lunging back with wary aggression. 

“Sherlock—” he began, but Sherlock shook his head, eyes wide and panicked. He clapped a hand over his mouth and John responded, grabbing him around the waist and hauling him into the en-suite bathroom. He bent Sherlock over the bowl just in time, harsh retches wracking Sherlock’s thin form as he gagged the contents of his stomach into the toilet. John’s hand stroked his bent back, voice murmuring soothing platitudes into his ear. Sherlock slumped against the toilet seat, breath coming in whining gasps from his parted lips. 

“Shh,” John crooned, flushing the toilet and helping Sherlock to his feet. “Shh, you’re okay. I’ve got you.” He guided Sherlock back to the bed. Settling him on the edge, he disappeared into the bathroom, reappearing with a wet cloth. When he pulled Sherlock into his lap, wiping his sweaty face with the dampened fabric, Sherlock let his eyes close, cheek against John’s chest. 

He drifted back to sleep, a bitter taste on his tongue, water droplets trailing cool tracks down his face. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

When Sherlock woke again, he was beneath the comforter, head on the pillows. He opened his eyes to find John facing him, laying on his side, head propped up in his hand, elbow on the

pillow. There was a lamp on beside the bed, illuminating the room with a pale yellow glow. 

It stabbed into his eyes, and he shut them quickly.

“Hello.” John’s greeting was too loud in Sherlock’s pounding skull, and he winced. “Sorry.” Voice dropping to a whisper, Sherlock felt John lean away, the mattress dipping with the movement. There was a clicking noise, and darkness fell over Sherlock’s eyelids, bringing blessed release with it. 

He opened his eyes again, just a crack, and saw John once more leaning over him, peering with concern into his face. 

“Headache?” he asked, stroking a thumb over the detective’s cheek. Sherlock nodded, and John’s brow furrowed. “I’ll get you something.” He shifted toward the edge of the bed, but Sherlock grabbed at his arm. His hold was weak, tenuous, but John paused, leaning back. He tilted his head, inquisitive.

“What did you give me?” Sherlock croaked. His voice was a broken, rasping choke, and he coughed until his head throbbed with a new wash of pain. John gave him a confused look.

“Paracetamol,” John replied, brow furrowed. “Don’t you remember?” 

Sherlock shook his head, the motion almost making him whimper at the agony. “No,” he said, licking dry lips. “Before that. In the tea.” 

John’s brow rose, a bewildered expression crossing his face. 

“What?” 

Sherlock ground his teeth, half from pain, half in annoyance. “My tea—you put something in my tea. You drugged me.” He forced the words out, fighting to keep his heavy eyelids open. “What did you give me?” 

John cocked his head, a small, bemused movement. “Sherlock, there was nothing but tea in that mug.” He looked concerned, leaning down to peer into Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re not making any sense.” 

Sherlock stared at him, mouth open, head whirling with confusion. He blinked, shaking his head slowly, the action making his temples pulse. 

“I—I don’t…” he frowned. “But, you—I…” his voice rose, still ragged, alarm emerging and edging the words. “But I thought you—” 

“Shhh,” John murmured, stroking his thumb along Sherlock’s brow, smoothing away the frown lines. “You’re not well, you need to rest.” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock breathed in loud gulps of air, trying to reign in the panic rising in his chest. His heart thudded, pulse roaring in his ears, hands grabbing at the sheets with shaking fingers. His chest heaved, eyes flying open, dark with confusion.

“Sherlock,” John hushed him with gentle, warm hands, stroking his arms, his neck, his cheeks with light fingertips. “Sherlock, you’re okay, just breathe.” 

Air stuttered into his lungs in uneven gasps, the panic attack approaching the point of no return. John gathered him into his arms, pulling Sherlock into his lap. 

“I—I don’t know—I don’t know what happened,” Sherlock panted, breathless. “I thought you drugged me.” 

“You’re confused, Sherlock. Everything is okay. You’re okay. You just need to rest.” John’s voice was low, soothing. 

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded, fighting to control his body as it betrayed him with shaking and uneven gasps. 

“You overworked yourself,” John replied, tilting Sherlock’s head so he could look him in the eye. Sherlock latched onto the connection like a man on the brink of drowning, riveted to John’s blue stare. “I brought you here, to my flat. You had a shower. Do you remember?” Sherlock nodded, desperate, clinging to John’s words while his memory swirled, muddled with conflicting images. 

Nothing seemed real. _Everything_ seemed real. 

John was continuing, and Sherlock focused on the words, pushing breath into his lungs with slow inhales. 

“You were worked up, babbling. Couldn’t concentrate. I made you tea—just tea—and you drank it. You were distraught, upset by the case. By the husband—by DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan releasing him. Accusing you.” John’s face darkened, but he went on. “You collapsed from exhaustion and stress.” Hands stroked over his chest. The t-shirt was gone, its removal lost in Sherlock’s shattered mind. “I brought you to bed, let you sleep. You woke and were sick. You slept some more, then woke up.” John brushed his lips over Sherlock’s cheek, the contact warm and gentle, a pinpoint of focused connection. Sherlock closed his eyes, centering his awareness on the feel of John’s mouth on his skin. 

“But I thought…” Sherlock’s protest trailed off, weak, undefined. John gave him a pitying look. 

“You’ve been through a lot with this case, Sherlock,” he said, eyes wide and honest. Genuine. “I’m surprised you didn’t snap sooner.” When Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, John held him to his chest, shushing him. “Just rest. You’ll feel better once you’ve rested.” 

Skin hot with flush, head pounding, Sherlock leaned into the warmth of John’s arms. Nuzzled his face into his neck and let his body fall loose. His breathing was back to normal, strained but steady, and his arms were heavy. He felt drained. Wrung-out. Hung up to dry.

John’s low voice lulled him into a dead sleep, pain in his head fading to a background hum. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

His eyes opened to weak sunlight slanting in through the window, splashing over the bed sheets tangled around his legs. His upper body was bare, lower clad only in loose pants he did not recognize. Warmth pressed to his side, an arm draped heavy over his waist. Turning his head, Sherlock took in the sight of John asleep, cheek pressing into the pillow, his lips parted. He looked at rest, face smoothed out. 

He stared, analyzing, committing the lines of John’s face to memory until his eyes watered, and he had to blink. Turning his head again, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. He shifted, stretching out stiff limbs, trying to filter through his jumbled recollections for clarity. 

There had been tea. Suspicion. Fear and panic. Puking into a toilet, and incessant drumming, throbbing pain in his head. John’s corrections, his own blatant confusion. 

Sherlock pulled in a breath, closed his eyes, and groaned. He felt weakened and hollowed-out, nothing making sense in his scattered thoughts. John stirred at his side, one blue eye popping half-open, squinting at the light. 

“How do you feel?” he asked, voice rough with sleep. Sherlock turned his head, looking at him, considering. He licked his dry lips, watched John follow the motion with his eyes as they both opened, lids heavy. 

“Tired,” Sherlock replied. He reached out, pushing a hand beneath the sheets, fingers stroking along the swell of a hip. He blinked, slow, languorous, watching John’s lips part as a faint flush worked over his skin at Sherlock’s touch. “But better.” He snagged his hand around the curve of John’s back, kneading at the warm skin. John’s pupils dilated, his breath quickening in response. 

“Fantastic,” he murmured, tilting his chin up, angling his face fully toward Sherlock.

Sherlock paused, hesitated, memories filtering through the muddle in his head. 

John with darkened, hungry eyes. John caring for him, soothing the pain from his head. John forcing him to the bed until Sherlock responded, before his body betrayed them both with a wave of nausea. John murmuring, _“I know what’s best for you, Sherlock. I promise.”_

The decision was immediate, made without trepidation, coloured by a momentary pang of despair. It was too late to turn back now, and Sherlock surrendered to John as he gave up trying to make sense of what had occurred. 

Leaning forward, he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to John’s. The kiss was light, almost chaste, and John responded with a slick sweep of his tongue. Sherlock opened his mouth, let him inside, tasted his teeth and breath, and the low, needy groan rumbling deep in John’s throat. 

This time, when John rolled onto him and pressed him into the bed, Sherlock melted beneath the onslaught. He tilted his head back, compliant as John mouthed over the ridge of his trachea, fumbled at his borrowed pants and shoved them down to his ankles. John’s own bottoms were stripped off with a single, precise movement, and they were skin to skin, heat building between them. Their open mouths met in wet, needy kisses, John grunting against his lips, their legs tangling. 

Pausing to dig into the bedside table, popping open a small bottle and slicking his hands, John lubed them both before dropping down to bite Sherlock’s chest. The detective jerked, back arching, a loud cry torn from his lips. He locked a leg around John’s hips, pushing up until their erections slipped together in a delicious slide. Sherlock’s head fell back, eyes closed, and mouth open, John rumbling a low moan into the side of his neck. 

“John,” he breathed, fingers scrabbling at his spine, desperate for friction. _“Please.”_

John’s lips curled back, snarling dominance, and he growled his response. “Yes, Sherlock. Anything.” Grabbing handfuls of Sherlock’s hair, John yanked his head back, fastening his mouth over the pulse point with greedy need. His hips ground down, forceful, almost punishing, Sherlock biting his lips to keep from keening. Pressure built at the base of his spine, rising toward a peak until he teetered on edge, helpless. John moved over his neck, grabbing at Sherlock’s hips and grinding in hard rolling movements. 

“Mine,” he snarled, biting and sucking at skin until Sherlock was writhing beneath him, helpless in his own climax as pleasure rolled over him. He was oblivious to everything but John’s mouth on his skin, John’s hands on his body, John spitting curses into his neck as Sherlock’s release spattered against his stomach. Scooping his fingers through the slick between them, John took himself in hand, stroking and jerking until he came, spilling over Sherlock’s thighs and pelvis with a loud shout. 

John collapsed on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, skin sticky with their combined release. His racing heart slowed, body cooling with dried sweat. John’s lips brushed the underside of his jaw, and Sherlock felt something shatter inside his chest. 


	16. Meaner than My Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm bigger than my body, I'm colder than this home  
>  I'm meaner than my demons, I'm bigger than these bones_
> 
> _and all the kids cried out, "please stop, you're scaring me"  
>  I can't help this awful energy  
> god damn right, you should be scared of me  
> who is in control?_
> 
> _**control** \- halsey_

**December 5**

John Watson was no fool. He had been many things in his 37 years of life, but never a fool.

He had been hurt. Had been made to cringe and suffer. Had been both honourable and dishonourable. Was abused at the hands of a belligerent, drunk father. Had been an efficient soldier, finding a ruthless joy in killing men in the name of Queen and Country. 

He had found similar, sicker joy in killing, here in London, with bare hands.

John Watson was no fool. He knew Sherlock didn’t really trust him—knew he didn’t really accept John had not drugged him. John would have been a fool to believe Sherlock’s acceptance of his lies, and he was not. 

With Sherlock lying on his chest, asleep with a furrowed brow, John recognised he didn’t have the detective’s trust. But he had his acceptance, his surrender, and maybe that would be enough.

For now.

Shifting Sherlock to the mattress, John climbed out of bed. Stretched cramped, sore muscles into languid relaxation. Bare to the skin, the sunlight painted gold stripes over his stomach and thighs. Highlighted the silver and gold in his tawny, greying hair, and set fire to Sherlock’s brunette curls, spilling over the mussed pillows. 

John pulled on clean pants, and a pair of loose, well-worn jeans, padding across the room to slip through the open door. He descended the stairs, passing through the main floor to the laundry room. Retrieving Sherlock’s laundered clothes from the dryer, he folded the skin-tight jeans and the artfully torn shirt, tracing his fingers over the strategically-placed rips. Remembered Sherlock falling to his knees in the bathroom at NSY, mouth open and eager to worship John’s body. 

He bit into his bottom lip, teeth contorting a slow smirk, and palmed himself through his jeans. 

Corrupting Sherlock was proving easier than he had dared to dream—and infinitely more pleasurable. The detective was drawn to anything hinting at acceptance. Drawn to intimacy and comfort, like a moth to the flame. John pulled, and Sherlock came at his beck and call, tugged inexorably into the black hole of John Watson, a helpless, hapless planet caught in orbit.

It was delicious. 

Smoothing his hand over the rips in the shirt material again, John gathered the clothes, dropped them onto the couch, and meandered through to the kitchen. Setting the kettle to boil, he stared out the window, eyes wide and unfocused.

As easy as it had been to reel Sherlock in, set him off-balance and teetering, his next moves needed to be decided. Pre-planned. Elegant. That Sherlock was pliable and willing to fall was thrilling, but John knew there was still work to be done. If he wanted Sherlock to trust him, to completely and irrevocably, implicitly submit, he would need to bring him deeper. Even with Sherlock’s apparent submissive resignation—a reality that hung from Sherlock’s wary eyes like the stench of death—John didn’t believe he had full control of the detective. Not currently. 

If all went as he hoped, he would, and likely soon. He _needed_ that control, that surrender. Not solely through vulnerability and force, and not with Sherlock feeling like a cornered animal, left with no other choice but to submit. 

John could not reveal his true self until he was certain Sherlock would embrace the reality, rather than retreat. He required Sherlock to be worshipful, reverent. To fall at the altar of John, not as John Watson the retired army-doctor, teacher of triage, wearer of boring jumpers and button-ups. No—he needed Sherlock to bow to John Watson, the killer, the disgraced man, the Grim Reaper. 

He believed it possible. Sherlock had already proven himself malleable, and desperate for acceptance, even at the cost of his own safety. The detective may not know it yet, but John would keep him safe—though perhaps not in the sense of the word as others understood it, others who did not exalt in stealing away the lives of innocents. 

Sherlock provided the perfect avenue for manipulation through his ostracization from those who did not understand him, which appeared to be almost everyone he interacted with. His loneliness made him all too easy for John to influence. 

It would be his downfall and John’s gain. 

The kettle whistled, interrupting his introspection, and John turned to organize two cups of tea. Watching the water darken, colour seeping from the bags, his mind wandered. Fastened onto the red-haired man who had paid him a visit the day before. 

A Google search had provided nothing in the way of the man’s identity. Turning on Sherlock’s phone, John found little in the form of numbers in the address book. The majority of sparse entries were connected to NSY, the morgue, a few labelled _Homeless Network_ after a first name, an entry for _Parents,_ and his own number. Ignoring the missed calls and text alerts, John frowned down at the tea.

The man could be a problem. He had appeared connected to Sherlock—had stated: _“Sherlock Holmes is my business, and, so is anything he does, and anyone he consorts with.”_

John’s upper lip curled back, rage roiling deep in his stomach at the memory of the man’s words, of the claim he seemed insistent to lay upon the man asleep upstairs, debauched in John’s bed.

Teeth pressing into his bottom lip, John gripped the kitchen counter until his fingers and knuckles went white, possessive wrath coiled along his tense spine. 

Sherlock was _his_ , and some man in a fancy suit with a stupid umbrella was not about to take him away. John resolved to find out more about the man and to remove him from the picture if necessary. 

Sherlock’s mobile trilled out a shrill ringtone, jittering against the edge of the stove where John had dropped it in his fit of anger. He snatched it up, the screen displaying _G. Lestrade – NSY._ He declined the call, turned back to the tea, and was interrupted by a knock at the front door. __

“Sherlock?” The voice on the other side of the blue-painted wood was that of the DI, and John raised a brow at the uncertain tone. “Sherlock—are you in there?”

John moved through the kitchen arch, toward the entryway hall. He pulled the door open, fixing a jagged smile on his face when he found Lestrade on the doorstep. 

“Hello, Detective-Inspector,” he greeted, lifting an eyebrow. “Help you with something?”

Lestrade’s eyes flickered over John’s face, rested on the smile, then moved on as he tilted forward, trying to look over John’s shoulder. “Is Sherlock here?” 

Folding his arms over his chest, stiff-backed, John mellowed the smile into something indulgent. “Maybe,” he replied, cocking his head. “You looking for him?”

The DI’s eyes shifted back to John, appraising. He hesitated before answering. “He’s not answering his phone.” He frowned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I went by his place, and he wasn’t home. Landlady said she hadn’t seen him in a few days.” Lestrade paused, seeming to struggle with something. When he spoke again, his voice was almost desperate. “Look, Sherlock has a… a _history_.” 

John’s lips quirked, passive smile still in place. “A history?” he repeated, stepping aside to allow the DI inside. 

Lestrade moved past John, wary, eyes flickering over his face and crossed arms. He walked through the entryway into the living room as he spoke. “I’m not going to give details—for Sherlock’s privacy. But his history involves disappearing and getting himself into… well… _trouble_.” Lestrade shook his head, looking at John. “His brother asked me to look out for him, and if he’s disappeared again—” he fell silent, eyes locking on the folded clothing on the sofa. He looked back to John, who offered a smirk, even as he tucked away the information regarding Sherlock’s brother.

“Sherlock is _indisposed_ ,” he replied, drawing the word out in a lower register, grin widening as Lestrade shifted, his discomfort palpable. Ignoring the alarmed look the DI shot his way, John slipped into the kitchen, retrieving the mugs of tea from the counter. He made no effort to offer one to the older man, and Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.

“I see.” Another stretch of silence, briefer but filled with tense, buzzing energy. “Is he—do you…” Lestrade cleared his throat, the sound strained. “Do you think he’ll be, ah, available soon?”

“No idea.” John’s response was cold, clipped, the grin falling from his face like the drop of a mask. Lestrade seemed to be considering his next words carefully.

“All right,” he conceded, speaking gradually, measured. “Well—have him call me when he’s able, okay?”

“No can do, Detective-Inspector.” John forced a cheery edge into his voice, but the reply dripped with thrumming malice.

Lestrade stared at him. His hands flexed at his sides, muscles tensing. “And why not?” he asked, wary and watchful.

John blinked, a slow, calculated action. “Sherlock has been overworking himself—frankly, this case is not good for his health.” The smile was back, crooked and dark, teeth gleaming in the natural light filling the flat. “As his doctor, I think he needs rest.” He tilted one of his hands, tea sloshing at the rim but not spilling over. The movement was flippant. “I’d rather you didn’t bother Sherlock for a few days, at least until he’s back to himself.”

Lestrade’s reply was icy, words rolling out with sharp edges. His body was tense, coiled tight like a spring, eyes darkened with uncertain anger. Despite John’s casual demeanour, the DI was clearly well-trained, sensing the threat beneath the façade. “And you’re certain this is what Sherlock wants?”

“Doesn’t matter what Sherlock wants,” John retorted, silvery and falsely cheerful. 

An incredulous laugh slipped from the DI’s mouth. “Bloody hell, you’re a bit crooked, aren’t you?”

John’s hands tightened around one of the mugs, gripping it with force, smile plastered on his face. “Not at all,” he replied, fingers clenching. The muscles stood out in his forearm, bicep flexing as his smile widened. “I just know what’s best for him.” 

“Doubt that.” Lestrade’s retort was harsh, and he took a step forward. There was an edge of threat to the action, and John’s lips pulled back. He didn’t speak, and Lestrade moved closer. Something snapped inside John’s head, a surge of feral reaction screaming, ringing in his ears. His grip tightened, and the mug in his left hand cracked and shattered, scalding tea washing over his fingers and wrist, dripping to the floor at his feet. Lestrade froze, eyes going wide, moving from John’s swiftly reddening skin to the tea pooled on the hardwood floor.

“You should go,” John said, muted. His voice was empty, devoid of emotion, the words flat and final. “Before you wake up Sherlock.” 

Lestrade tore his gaze from the burns rising on John’s hand, the shock rippling across his face fading into firm lines. His mouth pulled down at the corners, and he shifted to the side, walking around John the way someone would pass a wild animal, afraid of being bitten.

“Let me know if anything interesting happens, DI,” John called after him, turning in a smooth, easy half-circle to watch the man march toward the front door. The officer’s steps were uneven, clumsy, hands shaking with suppressed distress and adrenaline. Lestrade shot him a look over his shoulder, and John grinned, adding, “I’ll be waiting.”

Gregory Lestrade narrowed his eyes, paused, and slipped out the door, letting it slam behind him. John stared at the blue wood, breathing in short gasps, epinephrine making the edges of his vision flash red.

“John?”

Turning, John looked up to find Sherlock at the top of the stairs. He was wrapped in a pale blue sheet, one John recognized from his bed, curls a mussed riot. He peered down at John, blinking. His face was sleepy, cheek creased with pillow lines, but his eyes were slate-grey and sharp. They shifted over John, to the floor, taking in the broken mug and spilled tea. 

Watching him, John came to life with a steadying breath, a warm smile contorting his hard face into something soft. 

“Baby,” he crooned, stepping through the pool of tea without care for his bare feet. John mounted the steps, making his way to the man at the top. Sherlock watched him advance with a guarded expression, holding firm even when John reached the landing, Sherlock’s position bringing them face-to-face. “I didn’t hear you get up. How are you feeling?” Reaching out, John stroked his reddened fingers along Sherlock’s cheek, to his jaw, gripped and tilted his head to the side.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, voice catching at the feel of John’s fingernails against the faint scruff of his stubble. “I feel fine.” His eyes sharpened, flickering down to the sitting room and the jagged pieces of crockery littering the floor. “Was someone here?” He looked back at John, searching. John smiled again, pushing his thumb along a collarbone into the divot between.

“Lestrade stopped by.” John offered the remaining mug of tea, pushing it to Sherlock’s chest until he took it, pushing one hand out of the sheet wrapped around his lithe form. The bedding draped over Sherlock’s hips, down his long legs, and John bit down on his lip, swallowing a moan at the sight. He forced himself to focus, looking up at Sherlock’s frowning face. “He was worried about you.”

Sherlock’s lips pursed, head tilting down. With narrowed eyes, he studied John’s face. John lifted his chin, body relaxed, feeling that x-ray gaze travel over his skin. It made him shiver, sucking his lip into his mouth, eyelids dropping to half-mast as a flush rose to his face. Sherlock’s skin darkened, a faint rosy tinge sweeping high over his cheekbones at John’s evident welcome of his scrutiny. 

“What did you tell him?” he asked, lifting the tea to his mouth. John watched him take a sip, noting the curve of the detective’s Cupid’s bow upper lip on the edge of the mug, the bob of his throat when he swallowed. 

“That you were well looked after.” John shifted closer, nudging Sherlock’s arm aside, insinuating himself against the detective’s barely clad front. His head tilted back, dark eyes fixing on Sherlock’s. “Don’t you agree?” 

John heard Sherlock’s breathing pick up, quickening and deepening, the flush on his face extending to his neck and upper chest. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock murmured, blinking rapidly. Goosebumps rose on his skin, rippling beneath John’s palm as it stroked under the sheet, over Sherlock’s chest.

“Good boy.” A predatory smile on his face, John gripped Sherlock’s elbow, turning him toward the stairs. “Come on—let’s feed you up.” 

Sherlock’s lips quirked, amusement filtering through the harsh unease in his face. He followed John to the first floor, stepping with care with the sheet fluttering around his legs. “’Feed me up’?” he repeated, drawing a long look from John. “Is that something doctors do for their patients?”

John led him to the sofa, careful to avoid the broken mug on the floor. “It’s something boyfriends do.” There was a hitch in Sherlock’s step, and he almost tumbled to the couch, John reaching out to steady him. “Easy, baby, don’t fall.”

Tilting his head back, Sherlock looked up at him from the sofa. “Boyfriends?” he said, voice firm despite a faint waver at the end. John smirked, tracing a finger along Sherlock’s jaw.

“That’s right,” he replied, pushing his thumb against Sherlock’s bottom lip, and the faint scab marring the pale flesh. 

Sherlock’s breath stuttered against his hand, and John bit back a thrill at the faint, wary trust lurking in the other man’s eyes. When Sherlock frowned, grabbing at his hand, he raised an eyebrow. But Sherlock stared at John’s palm, fingers tracing the red outline of a light burn from the tea, and the small, clotted cuts on his skin from the shattered mug.

“You’re hurt,” he said, and John hid his triumphant grin at the distant, upset tone of Sherlock’s voice. 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” John replied, tugging at a curl falling over Sherlock’s forehead. “It’ll take a lot more than this to take me out.” Sherlock looked up at him with an almost shy smile, and John let the grin lurking at the edges of his mouth part his lips, baring his teeth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these last two chapters have been rather short, I was away for 4 days, and I have a bunch of stuff to do at the mental health agency I'm a board member with today, so might be a little slow on the longer updates. but more to come, so stay tuned!


	17. Undertow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _two times in, I've been struck dumb by a voice that  
>  speaks from deep, beneath the endless water,  
> it's twice as clear as heaven, twice as loud as reason  
> deep and rich like silt on a riverbed, just as never ending_
> 
> _current's mouth below me, opens up around me  
>  suggests and beckons, all while swallowing  
> surrounds and drowns and wipes me away  
> but I'm so comfortable, so comfortable_
> 
> _shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up  
>  you're saturating me  
> how could I let this bring me  
> back to my knees?_
> 
> _euphoria, euphoria, euphoria, euphoria_
> 
> _I’m back down, I'm in the undertow  
>  I'm helpless and awake, I'm in the undertow  
> we die beneath the undertow  
> there doesn't seem no other way out of the undertow_
> 
> _euphoria_
> 
> _**undertow** \- _tool

To say Sherlock was ‘experienced’ in romantic relationships—or relationships of any kind—would be laughable. He wasn’t virginal, but was far from familiar with the phenomena of coupling. Sex he could handle, after overcoming his initial reticence, and enjoyed. Sex was easy—could be enacted while keeping his distance, leaving him safe from emotional tether. Free from harm.

Relationships were _not_ safe. If anything, they increased the risk of Sherlock breaking open by ten-fold. 

John Watson was not safe. Not by half, even if Sherlock felt sheltered. The man burned with aggression, with control and possessive need, and Sherlock found himself comforted by John’s roiling personality. John was a wild sea, a crashing, drowning undertow. A rickety harbour for Sherlock, a man lost to the tides. 

Any port in a storm. 

Watching John sweep up pieces of a broken mug and clean cooled tea off the floor, Sherlock curled into himself, drawing the thin sheet tighter around his body. In the mundane, domestic moment, Sherlock felt a strange sense of belonging. Of home. 

He had heard Lestrade’s visit. Listened in on the conversation between the DI and John from the top of the stairs. Knew John had chased Lestrade away, getting under his skin with a display of ownership—with snarling, possessive, righteous anger. It should be unsettling. It should make Sherlock hesitate. Should force him to run, to escape, to fight. 

Instead, he sat on the couch, knees hugged to his chest and looked at his clothing—folded on the cushion beside him—with absent eyes. John stood and moved toward him, hovering at the edge of the sofa, eyes on Sherlock’s face. 

His expression was distant and dark, blue irises faded with thoughts that pulled him far away from the two of them. Sherlock hated it, the feeling of distance stretching out as John stared at him, and he reached up to pull John’s mouth down to his. Sherlock tongued past John’s lips and tasted the air from his lungs. 

This was right. This was safety, of a sort. Shelter among the wolf pack, safe-harbour amidst the storm. An anchor, pulling him beneath the waters, keeping him from drifting away.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Reclined on the couch, body slick with drying sweat, Sherlock listened to John moving about upstairs. He wiped a damp flannel along his stomach, cleaning their combined release from his skin, tossing it to the floor.

Pipes rattled as John turned on the shower above, and Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to the water flowing through the walls. Behind his lids, he encountered familiar halls and stretching red carpet. He moved through his Mind Palace, taking in the words written on the ceiling, knowing the truth with every step forward. 

John had drugged him before, he had little doubt of it. At first, he had rationalized the action to Sherlock, told him he knew what was best. Then he had lied, denying it entirely. Now that his head was clear, body once more under control, Sherlock knew the truth. John had drugged him.

His ultimate motives were less clear. To Sherlock’s knowledge, John had not taken advantage of him while he had been unconscious. He had woken sick and uncomfortable, but without marks of abuse or assault on his body. The illness—a reaction to the drugs themselves—had faded, his body metabolizing the substance with ease after the initial come-down. Sherlock had put much worse in his own body, injecting crystalline fire into his veins, and the substance John had used had been much milder. 

It was easy to believe John had drugged him to make him sleep, like he said. As strange as such care may appear to ordinary people, it wasn’t entirely abnormal to Sherlock, who was more than familiar with drugging others himself. Mainly in an academic sense, but a college roommate of his had once lost an entire Wednesday to Sherlock’s experimentation, and had never been wiser.

In this, he and John were similar. However, Sherlock’s motivation stemmed from scientific curiousity, and John’s appeared to border on control and care. 

Walking through his Mind Palace, he found the room where John first stood, smiling at Sherlock when he had asked him if he was the Reaper. 

The room was empty, filled with dust. 

“Looking for me?” 

Sherlock spun, finding John in the corridor he had just walked through. He looked both solid and intangible, the edges of his forms wavering like smoke. His eyes blazed, pinpoints of blue fire. 

“John,” he said, rooted to the floor as it melted beneath his feet. 

“I know what’s best for you, Sherlock,” Mind Palace John whispered, stepping toward him. “I promise.” His hands drifted over Sherlock’s arms, up to his shoulders, along his neck to cup his face in burning palms. 

“John,” Sherlock said again, repeating, imploring. The red carpet dissolved, liquified, flowed up to his calves, weighing him down like breezeblocks. 

“I know, baby, I know.” John’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling Sherlock’s face down to his. Their lips brushed, John’s eyes dark and pleading. “Let me do this for you, let me keep you safe.” 

Sherlock’s voice caught in his throat, a strangled moan, John’s mouth filling his lungs with smoke. Threatening and then proceeding to consume him, burning the inside of his chest with wildfire, out of control and destroying everything within his rib cage.

“Yes,” he gasped, choked, sobbed. _“Yes_.” 

Flames filled the room, blackening his skin and stripping it from bone and muscle, and Sherlock opened his mouth to scream. Nothing emerged, and fire poured down his throat.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Sherlock sat up, panic dying on his lips. His eyes focused, taking in the twilight quality of John’s sitting room. He looked around, found the space empty, and called out John’s name, with no answer. He tried again, clearing his throat around the tremulous waver in his voice.

“John?”

Nothing. Silence. 

Sherlock slipped off the couch, dropping the sheet and pulling his laundered jeans on over his naked legs. He wandered through the flat, upstairs to the empty bedroom and bathroom. He moved back downstairs, to the entryway. There was a piece of paper on the front door, stuck with tape. Grabbing it with shaking fingers, Sherlock read the short message.

_ Gone to Bart’s. Back at 6.  _ __

_ John. _ __

Squinting, Sherlock smoothed the slip of paper against his palm, looking up at the door. He could leave. There was nothing to stop him, no one to say otherwise. His breath hissed out between clenched teeth. 

The blue of the door was the same colour as John’s eyes.

Sherlock turned away, walking back into the sitting room. His jacket was draped over one of the chairs, and he grabbed at it, digging through the pockets. His fingers travelled over the familiar edges of a cigarette pack, his notebook, the empty box of nicotine patches. The evidence bag containing the note found at Jennifer Wilson’s murder. Pausing, Sherlock traced a finger over the words, committing them to memory and failing to suppress a shiver.

No phone. 

He tore through the rest of the pockets, hands beginning to shake as he failed to find something else. Giving up, he threw the coat onto the floor, eyes wide, nostrils flaring with something bordering on terror.

The scalpel was gone. 

Pressing fingertips to his temples, Sherlock closed his eyes, face scrunching up as he focused. Pushed back through his swirling memories of the past few days. 

It had been there when he was at NSY, he was sure of it. Now it was gone, and there was only one person who could have found it. 

Panic lanced through his body, pooling dread in his stomach. Sherlock dropped to his knees, fumbling through the coat again, knowing what he would find and doing it anyway. He came up empty-handed and balled his fists in the thick wool material, forcing himself to breathe in loud, slow puffs, despite the calamitous thundering of his heart. Finding a semblance of calm, Sherlock glanced at a clock on the wall, noting the time. 4:17.

Sherlock rocked to his feet, crossing to the kitchen. He opened the drawers and cupboards, searching. A guilty feeling slipped over him, making his hands shake, and he stopped. Pushed an open drawer shut and moved back to the living room. Looking around, his eyes landed on a cordless phone, hanging on the wall beside the television. 

He lunged for the device, grabbing it with clumsy fingers, nearly dropping it to the floor. Sherlock hesitated, cradling the phone in his palm, brow furrowed. Mouth tightening with resolve, he dialled a number from memory. 

The line rang out, once, twice, and a timid, feminine voice answered.

“Molly Hooper, Bart’s Mortuary.” 

“Molly,” Sherlock replied, sucking in a breath.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Molly sounded surprised but pleased, her voice too high, making him cringe. “DI Lestrade came by looking for you—is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine.” Tilting his shoulder against the wall, Sherlock stretched out his legs. “Have you done the autopsy for Jennifer Wilson yet?” 

“Yes—sorry, I thought DI Lestrade would have passed the notes on.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked, eyes settling on the now-cleared spot where a broken mug had recently rested in a pool of spilled tea. “No, not yet. I, uh…I’ve misplaced my phone.” 

“Right—well, everything was consistent with the other Grim Reaper victims.” A moment of hesitation made Sherlock grit his teeth in frustrated anticipation as Molly went on. “There wasn’t anything to tie the husband to her death. Sorry, Sherlock.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock’s voice was clipped, hard. Molly made a soft, nervous sound. A sudden thought struck, and he asked, “have you seen John today?”

“John Watson? Uh, no, but—but, I mean, he could be elsewhere. I’ve been in the morgue all day.” Molly let out a breathless laugh. “I could ask around if you’re looking for him?” There was a curious, cautious edge to the words, an unspoken question Sherlock chose to ignore.

“No, that’s all right, Molly. Thank you.” Sherlock hung up on Molly’s response, biting at his bottom lip. Frowning, he looked down at the phone, considering. Without thinking, he dialled another number, bringing the receiver to his ear.

“Detective-Inspector Lestrade.”

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock began, voice steely. “I heard you were looking for me.”

“Sherlock!” The DI’s voice was loud, relieved. “Thank god, I was worried—” 

“Not necessary,” Sherlock interrupted smoothly, speaking over the officer’s words. “No need for concern, I am fine.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Lestrade cleared his throat. With evident discomfort, he said, “Sherlock, listen. About John Watson—” 

Sherlock cut him off again. “There’s nothing you think about John Watson that I need to hear.” 

Lestrade let out a bark of shocked laughter. “Sherlock? Are you serious?” Another incredulous noise. “There’s something wrong with that man, Sherlock. You were right.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock snapped, gripping the receiver with white-knuckled fingers. “John Watson is not your concern.” 

“Sherlock—” Lestrade began, trying again.

“No, Lestrade.” Sherlock’s brows drew down in a scowl, mouth twisting. “ _You_ listen to _me_.” Digging his free hand against his thigh, nails denting the faded fabric of his jeans, he narrowed his eyes. “My safety is not, and _never has been_ , your concern.” He made a hissing sound when Lestrade made a noise on the other end, falling silent at Sherlock’s anger. It was like a wave, cresting over his head and pulling him beneath the undertow. “Just because my brother threatened your job if you didn’t look after me when I was using, doesn’t mean I need your attention now. I am fine, John Watson is fine, _we_ are fine. So back _off.”_

Silence followed the end of his words, thrumming through the line like a heavy weight. When Lestrade finally spoke, it was with resignation.

“I see.” A pause. “So—it’s like that, is it? You and him?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, icy. “It’s like that.” 

Lestrade sighed.

“God save you, then.”

Sherlock scowled at the floor, teeth sawing into his bottom lip. He did not respond, and Lestrade broke the quiet.

“All right, well. I’ll be in touch if something new happens with the Reaper. Unless—you think you’ll be back to work soon?” Lestrade’s voice was cautiously hopeful, and Sherlock bit back a surge of despair, feeling himself sinking deeper under the waves. 

“I don’t have my phone,” he said, ignoring Lestrade’s second question. “Call John if you need to speak with me.” 

It was easier this way. He was already deep underwater—no need to drag anyone else down just to save himself from drowning. 

“Sherlock—” 

Sherlock ended the call, cutting off the rest of Lestrade’s words. He set the phone back in its cradle, paused, and cocked his head, catching the scrape of a key in the lock. Stepping into the middle of the sitting room, standing where he could see the door, he watched it swing open.

“John, I—” the words died in his throat as John stumbled into the entryway, leaning heavily on the wall. There was blood on his hands, on his face, plastering his tawny hair to the side of his head. 

He looked up at Sherlock, shoved blood-stiffened hair from his eyes, and held out a hand.

“Sherlock,” he said, fingers outstretched. “I need you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens 👀


	18. Cater to the Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _run desire run  
>  sexual being  
> run him like a blade  
> to and through the heart  
> no conscience  
> one motive  
> cater to the hollow_
> 
> _**the hollow** \- a perfect circle_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: very violent murder involving strangulation, and thoughts of domestic abuse.

Sherlock reaching out to him on the sofa, his face imploring, drawing John into his arms and mouth, building up his ego. Gave John a high—an all-powerful feeling of omniscience. 

When Sherlock’s hips fell still after his desperate rutting against John’s groin, John had extricated himself from the man’s arms. Left Sherlock limp and loose on the couch, melting into the cushions with heavy eyelids. In the shower, he had exalted, the taste of victory sweet in his mouth.

Sherlock had reached for him, reached _out_ to him, to John, and brought him in. The burn of triumph mingled with the body-deep satisfaction of their coupling on the sofa, and John scrubbed his skin until it turned pink. 

Downstairs, he found Sherlock asleep—or something like it, hands clasped beneath his chin, eyes roving restless and random beneath his closed eyelids. Failing to rouse him, John scribbled a note, taped it to the door, and set out. 

It was 10 in the morning, and he felt like the world was his. Like he could take it in hand and pull it apart, or crush it between his palms. He felt infinite. Untouchable. Indestructible. Larger than life. 

With his growling ego, drunk with power, he itched to kill. Take a life as easily as he had taken and demolished Sherlock’s will.

John was cocky. Over-confident. Stupid.

He made a mistake. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The woman was petite, with short, wavy blonde hair. He recognized her, a nurse from a clinic he had covered a shift for. She didn’t remember him or didn’t mention it if she did. 

Once John was close enough to notice the green colour of her eyes, he knew she would be the next target. The verdant cast to her irises reminded him of the times when Sherlock’s eyes flashed the same colour, and John could not turn away. 

He ran into her at Tesco. Introduced himself and flashed her a wide grin that made her narrow her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. Her name was Mary, and she was wary of John’s attentions, but let him help her with her groceries. Let him assist in loading them in her car. Agreed to a lunch date and picked a place for them to meet. 

John wandered through Regent’s Park until one o’clock. Met Mary for coffee and sandwiches. Laughed in the right places and offered to walk her home. She lived nearby, it wasn’t far, she would be fine on her own. He insisted, and she caved. His head ached, mouth watering at the sight of her neck, bared by a dark blue button-up shirt open at the collar. 

“So, John—what do you do?” Mary asked, tilting her head toward him as they walked side-by-side down the sidewalk. 

John offered a mild smile, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “I teach at Bart’s Hospital,” he replied, and Mary’s brows rose.

“Really?” Her voice held a note of surprise. “You don’t strike me as the teacher type.”

John laughed, shrugged his shoulders. “It pays the bills.” Another shrug. “I worked at a clinic for a bit before, but the pay wasn’t great, and I found it rather dull.” He twisted his lips to the side in an apologetic smile. “I was a soldier before—trauma surgeon.” 

Mary looked mildly impressed, aiming a slight smile his way. “Exciting. What happened?” She paused, then added, “if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all,” John replied, shaking his head. “I got shot.” He tapped a finger against his left shoulder. “Couldn’t do surgery after that. Nerve damage.” 

A soft hum slipped from Mary’s lips, a gentle, sympathetic noise. “Poor man. Sorry to hear.”

John grinned, darkness rising in his chest. “No worries. Took a while to land on my feet, but I’m doing just fine now.” 

He received a mild smile in response as they reached a block of small flats, pausing before a door. Mary’s eyes swept over him, appraising.

“Coffee?” she asked, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t we just have coffee?” he replied, and Mary’s lips quirked to the side.

“Maybe coffee means something else.” There was a coy edge to Mary’s low voice, and John pressed his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from smirking.

“Well,” he said slowly, eyes half-open. “Maybe I’d better say yes, then.” 

Mary smiled, offered a wink. “Maybe you’d better.”

They did start with coffee. Sat at Mary’s small kitchen table and sipped the hot, dark liquid. Exchanged trivial details about their lives. Mary talked about being an orphan, John made something up about his mother dying of cancer. She seemed to eat it up, eyes fixed on his face with glittering attention. 

Later, he would berate himself for not seeing it. For being so blind. 

The conversation moved on in a lighter direction. The light began to deepen, afternoon fading toward evening. Mary’s kitchen burned gold.

When she rose to refill his mug, flicking on a light, John caught her hand, drew her down for an open-mouthed kiss. She allowed it. Didn’t pull away, kissed him back. Tasted his tongue and slid a hand under his shirt. He returned the favour, pulling her into his lap until they were gasping and panting, chair skidding against the floor. 

Things went downhill from there.

As they stumbled through the kitchen, Mary guiding him toward the couch, John ran his hand up her spine, gripped the back of her neck. She twisted, and they fell on the sofa. When Mary yanked him down on top of her, her hands were unexpectedly strong, arms toned and taut with lithe muscle.

Later, when John remembered his brief flash of surprise at her strength, he would kick himself. Would fantasize about being smarter, not missing the warning signs. Sherlock wouldn’t have missed it, and the thought would make John bite into his own skin, and shove Sherlock’s face against a pillow for daring to be better than him.

Mary’s legs went around his hips, bringing them skin to skin, John guiding his condom-clad erection between her thighs, blind to his own ignorance. 

He wrapped his hands around her throat, slow fingers and rough palms, and she bucked up into him. When he began to grip, tighten and release, Mary made a low moan in her chest, mouthed over his jaw. 

He had been stupid. So, so _stupid._

It was as he began to apply real pressure that it happened. Mary’s eyes flew open, shock narrowing the pupils to pinpricks. John stared down into her face, expecting fear and submission. Instead, he found rage and a cold, hard calculating flash before her palm connected with his nose, and his head rocked back with a spray of blood. Stunned, his hands went still, and the woman beneath him shifted him back with her legs around his waist, bent her knees, and kicked him in the stomach. 

John tumbled back, slipped, and went to the floor. Throwing out a hand, he barely caught himself before his head struck the ground, rolling sideways as Mary lunged at him. She came down on his legs, and he twisted, clawing at her until she fell back. His hands scrabbled at the carpet, trying to find purchase and pull himself up when a noise made him look up and back. 

Something collided with his head and John saw stars, blood running into his eyes. Blinking it away, squinting, he swung blindly, knuckles striking bone with a sick crunch. Mary’s weight tilted, slid off his legs, and John lurched back, rolling to his feet. His movements were awkward, unsteady, and his vision swam, making him hunch at the waist as he waited for it to pass. 

Mary was stunned, collapsed against the floor, a bruise rising on her cheek and over her left eye from John’s wild punch. She lifted an arm, dazed, and John dropped onto her, ignoring a wave of dizziness. 

He fixed his hands around her throat and squeezed. Mary’s eyes flew open, wide and terrified, arms rising too late. Disoriented, already feeling the effects of air deprivation, she slapped uselessly at John’s bare sides and back. He pressed harder, thumbs digging against her trachea, all pretenses of gentle, sensual touch discarded. 

His head pounded, blood dripped into his eyes, and he squeezed until the woman’s face went red, blue, then purple. Her tongue lolled from the corner of her open mouth, eyes bulging, and John pressed long after her final spasms had stilled. 

By the time he sat back, shaking with fatigue and adrenaline, the light had shifted toward night, and blood was gummed against the side of his face; in his eyebrows and lashes. 

John yanked the condom off. Pulled on his clothes and tucked it into his pocket. Stalking into the kitchen, he stepped over the broken pieces of a lamp, slammed against his head by Mary. Pausing to sway against the wall, hand going to his head, vision briefly darkened, he wet a cloth. Tried his best to wipe his blood from Mary’s body, saw spots of red dotting the carpet and sofa, and ground his teeth together. 

Evidence. There was too much.

He cleaned what he could, scrubbing the floor and carpet with bleach, head pulsing in time with his ragged breathing and thudding pulse. John searched the house, gathering bottles as he went, returning to the living room with an armful of flammables. He opened the bottles, tossed the rags on the floor, over Mary’s body. Swaying, nerves burning with pain and exhaustion, John poured isopropyl onto the clothes, the rug, the couch. Tossed the bottle aside and upended half a decanter of whiskey. 

Pausing to swallow down sick nausea, he stumbled into the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of nail polish remover, tripped back to the living room and dumped it over Mary’s slack face. Finding a box of matches in the kitchen, he threw a handful over the sodden carpet, walking to the entryway. 

John looked over the body on the floor, fighting back a bitter surge of disappointment. He had hoped for another display, another tally for the Reaper, and here he was, destroying his newest kill. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Lighting the match took several tries, his hands shaking too hard to steady the head against the striking paper. A flame sputtered to life, almost died out from his relieved breath, and John forced himself to fall still, tossing the match onto the edge of the carpet. It caught slowly, so slowly, and he lit several more, throwing each farther and farther. 

With the growing fire burning greedily over the rug, he flung the matchbox into the living room. Flames flickered forward, contacted with the spilled mixture of chemicals and alcohol, and began to grow, temperature rising in a mighty roar as the flammable solution ignited. 

The heat hit him like a wall, and John stumbled through the door, out onto the street. He slipped into the shadows, grateful for the dark, watching as fire licked at the open door, pushed through the windows with a shatter, glass exploding outward as the blaze grew. 

A few flats down, someone stepped outside at the noise, body going stiff with alarm. 

“Fire!” The cry rang out in the cooling air, and John slunk deeper into the cover of a building across the street. Watched others exit their homes and gather on the road. 

Sirens screamed in the distance, and John slipped away. 

Sticking to dark corners and narrow alleys, he made his way back home, progress slow, painful, vision wavering, head pounding. Red spots danced in his eyes, and he pushed onward in a daze. By the time the familiar blue door came into view, John’s legs were shaking, fresh blood trickling down his face. It took agonizing minutes to fumble his key into the lock, to push the door open and stagger inside. Leaning on the wall, he looked up as Sherlock’s voice washed over him, the words lost to the rushing noise in his ears. He called for him, reached out, shoving hair from his face, limbs shaking. The door swung shut behind him, and John went to his knees at Sherlock’s feet. 

“John.” Fingers brushed his face, patted at his cheek, light but firm. “John?” 

Vision greying, hands flexing with useless, aimless movements, John clawed at Sherlock, finding a bare chest and warm skin. 

“Concussion,” he managed, wincing when the word rattled through his aching head. “Need sleep. But—” John bit his lip, forcing himself to focus through the pain. Narrowed his eyes and met Sherlock’s wide gaze. “Wake me—two hours. Every two hours.” He clenched a hand around Sherlock’s bicep, teeth bared. “Tell me you understand.”

Sherlock nodded, and John sucked in a loud breath, letting it out in a violent hiss.

“ _Say you understand,_ ” he snarled, shaking Sherlock’s arm. The detective nodded again, wincing at the aggression.

“I understand, John,” he replied, almost meek. “Every two hours.” 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The next six hours passed in a fog. Sherlock dragged him to the couch, John collapsing into the cushions, vision fading to black. He woke to Sherlock shaking him gently, eyes narrowed, mouth tight, peering into his pupils with a small penlight. John grabbed his arm, squeezed hard enough to bruise, and passed out again.

When he next woke, Sherlock repeated the check, tipping a glass of water to John’s lips. He watched him drink, face impassive until John slipped under again.

The third time, he found Sherlock wiping his skin with a damp cloth, scrubbing blood from John’s hands and face, his expression blank and unreadable. When John sat up, the detective shifted away, wary. Biting back a surge of frustration—obviously, Sherlock was not as cowed, as dependent, as he’d thought—John grabbed at his face, tracing his lips with a wet finger. 

“Thank you,” he said, forcing his voice into a warm semblance of gratitude. His chest felt empty, hollow, but he managed to bring a softer edge to Sherlock’s hard face. The detective tilted forward, nudged John’s nose with his, seeking out his lips. 

The kiss was warm and cold, water trickling down John’s temple and cheek. He tasted bitterness on the back of his tongue, anger rising in his throat, and resisted the urge to throw Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock made a quiet sound, a long, releasing sigh, and pushed his face into John’s neck. 

John’s hands clenched, flexed, relaxed, and he forced himself to stroke tense fingers through the other man’s tangled curls.

“Let’s go to bed.” 

Sherlock looked up, eyes pale pools in the faint moonlight filling the room, and nodded. He helped John to his feet, keeping an arm around his waist as they mounted the stairs. Sherlock settled John to the mattress, arranging pillows and blankets, and slipped in beside him.

“John—” he began, rolling over, face expectant.

“Don’t ask, Sherlock.” John’s voice was quiet but forceful, brokering no room for challenge. Sherlock flinched, jerking back, and John grit his teeth around the urge to strike him. Instead, he pulled the detective closer, smoothing a hand over his bare shoulder. “Go to sleep,” he said, a gentled command. Sherlock nodded, eyes troubled, and pushed his cheek against the pillow. 

John looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, irritation thrumming in his pounding head. Sleep wouldn’t come, and he gnawed at his lip. Sherlock’s breathing slowed, slow and warm against his neck, and John’s jaw clenched.

Laying in the dark, his head throbbing an uneven, excruciating beat at the temples, John realized he had missed something. Left something behind. Had felt it slip from his pocket as he stepped out the door, the sound of plastic meeting concrete lost in his dash to escape the inferno of his own making. 

He stumbled to his feet, somehow managing not to wake Sherlock, curled into a comma shape at his side. Going to his knees, John dug into his jeans, cast onto the floor in a denim pile. He searched the pockets, came up empty, searched again. Made his slow, unsteady way downstairs and checked his jacket. 

He found his wallet, keys, phone. An unopened scalpel. Did not find what he was looking for.

Closing his eyes, John leaned against the wall, seeing the object against the back of his eyelids. 

Sherlock’s phone, hitting the stairs as he fled from Mary’s. 

John pressed a hand over his face and cursed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, I had planned for this murder to happen but had not planned for it to occur in this way, nor the phone thing. so, welp, here we are.


	19. Guide Me When I Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _make ash and leave the dust behind  
>  lady diamond in the sky  
> wild light, glowing bright  
> to guide me when I fall  
> I fall on tragedy_
> 
> _**hurricane** – MS MR_

**December 6**

Sherlock woke to cold bedding beside him. Raising his head, he saw John, a dark silhouette in the early morning light, perched on the end of the bed with his elbows on his knees. His body was stiff, head bowed into his hands, back tense. 

“John?” Sherlock called his name, soft, hesitant until John’s head lifted. He didn’t turn. John faced the wall, hands hanging loosely between his thighs, and ice sank into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. “John,” he repeated, hushed.

“You should go.” 

John’s words slammed into him with physical force, and Sherlock’s fingers grabbed at the sheets. 

“Why?” The question slipped out in a harsh tone, breathless, and Sherlock cursed himself. Over the past few days, John had torn down his walls, his barriers, and now he felt raw. 

“Just go, Sherlock.” The command dropped like stones into the space between them, and Sherlock was moving before he could stop himself. Shifting, crawling over the rucked sheets and touching John with shaking hands. Wrapping his arms around his curved back and rigid spine and pressing close, lips to the nape of John’s neck. 

“What if I want to stay?” Sherlock asked, murmuring low in John’s ear, pressing his face against the curve of John’s jaw. 

John tilted his head away, rigid, lifting his chin and turning to glare at Sherlock. “Do you think I care?” he said, hand wrapping around Sherlock’s upper arm. “Do you think it matters, what you want?” 

Sherlock held John’s hard gaze, refusing to wince when fingers dug into his bicep, over where John had gripped him the night before. He held his tongue, bit into his cheek, and pressed his lips together. John’s dark eyes bored into his, flashed and settled into a blank, depthless stare. There was nothing in his face—it was an empty, hollow void that spoke to the chasm inside Sherlock’s chest. Slowly, John released him, turning his head back toward the wall.

“Go home, Sherlock,” he said, voice dead. He didn’t speak again, didn’t move, just looked at the wall and dug his hands into fists against his thighs. 

Sweeping to his feet, Sherlock pulled on his jeans. His bare feet rumbled over the stairs as he descended, grabbing his t-shirt and coat, settling them over his head and shoulders. Somewhere, the would be a pair of his socks, but he stuffed his feet into the heavy boots from the club stakeout without them and left the flat with the door slamming behind. 

It was early morning, the sky still dark at the edges with the retreating night, and the cold hit him full in the face, making his eyes go wide, his mouth fall open. Pulling sharp air over his lips, Sherlock hunched into his coat, a heavy scowl fixed on his face. 

John had scared him last night. Terrified him with his macabre appearance, and with his sudden aggression. He had given off a raw edge of anger, miasmatic and censured, both directed at Sherlock and diverted from him. 

There were bruises on his arm from John’s fingers, and Sherlock didn’t want to leave. The contrast was alarming, but, since collapsing, drugged, into John’s open arms, Sherlock had known. Known he was too deep, too far gone. No escape, no need for rescue, no hope for salvation. 

That had been the point of his phone call to Lestrade—to warn him off. To throw him off the scent. Not because John was safe. No, he was nothing like that. 

John was dangerous, a creeping cancer in Sherlock’s heart, and it was already too late for him. He was at the point of no return, far beyond recall, and, yet, here he was, walking through the brisk morning, hands shoved deep into his coat. 

He had been sent away, discarded by John, and Sherlock didn’t know why. Couldn’t fathom if it was something he had done, something he had said.

John had drugged him. Shouted and snarled and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock didn’t want to leave.

Feet dragging, Sherlock walked to the tube, settled into a seat in the carriage. Staring at his hands, fingers flexing and releasing, he let the noise of the early morning rush rattle around him, fading into the background. He closed his eyes and fell into his Mind Palace. 

“John?” he called, walking through cracked walls and falling down ceilings. “John?”

There was nothing. No one. Only silence, broken by a faint rumbling in the distance. The walls shook, the floor rippled, and Sherlock had to catch his balance to keep from going to his knees. He raised his head, saw the black door at the end of the hall, and stumbled toward it with unsteady legs.

When he pushed it open, there was nothing behind it. Just empty, black space, the floor falling away into an endless void. 

Sherlock’s eyes opened. The train came to a stop, and he rocked onto his feet, lurching through the doors when they slid open. His forward momentum spilled him out onto the platform, two stops from his own, and he ran up the stairs, into the bustle of London. 

The empty silence of the room behind the black door reverberated in the back of his head, and Sherlock pushed through commuters until his boots hit the surface of Baker Street. He fought with the key, getting it into the lock with shaking fingers, and pounded up the stairs, slamming into the flat like a hurricane. 

“Sherlock?” A voice called to him from the first floor, concerned and confused. 

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he shouted down, strained. “Lots of work to do, not to be disturbed, goodbye!” He closed the door and locked it, sliding to the ground with his back against the old wood. 

He closed his eyes and that room behind the open black door in his head was still empty, and his hands grabbed uselessly at the door frame. When he opened his eyes, he clutched at the red carpet, and he crawled on his hands and knees until he collapsed against the side of the sofa. 

Something was wrong. His Mind Palace was empty, in shambles, John the only thought in his head, despite his absence from the room where Sherlock kept him. 

A sick feeling rose in his chest, pouring out of his mouth until he gagged, helpless, on the carpet, shock wracking his body. Nothing came up, just a choked breath, and he tilted onto his side, eyes half-open and hazy. 

John had sent him away, Sherlock had told Lestrade off, and now he was alone. 

Again and always, in the end, alone. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

A knock on the door pulled him from a stupor, and Sherlock lifted his head, blinking fog from his eyes. Another knock, and he was on his feet, because there was a voice this time, calling through the locked door.

“Sherlock—Sherlock, open the door.” 

It was John. 

Sherlock crossed the room, unlocking and pulling the door open, mouth opening to speak. But John pushed into him, shut the door and crowded Sherlock back into the room. His hand cupped Sherlock’s neck, moved to his jaw, John pressing his teeth and mouth against Sherlock’s. There was desperation in the action, and Sherlock was helplessly washed away by the tide of John Watson, who shoved him up against the wall and possessed his mouth with hot breath. 

When John lifted his head, tilting back, Sherlock saw the evidence he had missed in the dark of John’s bedroom that morning. The discoloured bruises painted over his jaw and left cheek, the jagged laceration splitting the skin at his hairline. Sherlock raised a hand, smoothed fingertips over the cut. John growled, crushed their mouths together, nails digging into the skin of Sherlock’s waist beneath his shirt. Sherlock panted submission into his mouth and pulled John closer with handfuls of silvered hair. 

“You have to run, Sherlock,” John breathed against his lips. “They’re coming for you, and you have to run.” 

Sherlock’s head rocked back, hit the wall, and he blinked, seeing stars. John was watching him, inches away, eyes dark and pupils blown, breath coming in ragged pants. Sherlock clutched at his shirt, at his shoulders, hands shaking.

“What?” he said, confused. “I don’t—” 

He fell silent at the sound of loud banging on the downstairs entryway door. His fingers tightened, balling the fabric of John’s collar into a wrinkled mess, and John twitched. Mrs. Hudson’s voice drifted up to them, a demand for an explanation, followed by the low tenor of Lestrade’s reply.

“Shit,” John hissed, pressing closer to Sherlock, backing him into the corner of the room. “ _Shit!”_

He turned, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and pulling the detective behind him. His posture was stiff, aggressive, shoulders dropped and head aimed forward. His cheeks twitched, and Sherlock caught the flash of teeth as John bared them, defiant. He seemed to be trying to shield Sherlock with his body, and Sherlock vibrated with confusion when Lestrade appeared in the door, Sally behind him, several officers on her heels. 

“Sherlock—” Lestrade began, but paused, fell silent, taking in the scene. Donovan’s breath slipped out in a little gasp, and the officers behind looked uneasy. 

In front of him, John’s shoulders flexed, the muscles of his back rippling beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and Sherlock could smell the cold morning air on him. 

“John, you shouldn’t be here,” Lestrade said, beginning again with new words. His face was tense, troubled, and he took a slow breath. 

John stiffened, and he backed up a step, pressing Sherlock into the wall. “Don’t,” he said, and the sharp edge in his voice was a clear warning. Sally stepped to Lestrade’s side, wary. 

“We just need to speak to Sherlock,” she began, and John’s hiss cut her off.

“Speak, then.” 

Silence fell at the end of John’s snarl, and Sherlock smoothed a shaking hand down John’s curved spine. “John,” he murmured, aiming for comforting. 

John’s head twitched, jaw jerking up, lips curled back. The look was feral, animalistic, and Sherlock went quiet and still, frozen in place. A muscle ticked at the edge of John’s mouth, and Sherlock dropped his eyes to the floor.

John turned back to the officers, and Sherlock caught his breath in a jagged gasp, limbs feeling loose and limp.

“Say what you came to say,” John ordered, holding his position.

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged looks, nervous, and Lestrade sighed. He looked back to John with a brief nod. When he spoke, it was to Sherlock, but his eyes never left the man standing between them with twitching hands and a curled lip.

“Sherlock, we need you to come with us. To the station.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. When he tried to step around John, the other man shifted, blocking him with a warning look. 

“Why?” he asked, watching John from the corner of his eye, looking at Lestrade. “Is it about Jennifer Wilson? Is it the husband?” 

Lestrade hesitated, looked pained, and flicked his eyes to Sally. Her face tightened, and she stepped around him, moving closer, casting John a wary look. She pulled something from her pocket and held it up. It was an evidence bag, with something small and black settled at the bottom. Sherlock squinted, trying to discern what it was. When he moved forward again, John let him, stepping aside with his mouth in a tight, hard line. 

Sherlock reached out, fingers brushing the evidence bag, and Sally set it in his palm with a contemptuous look in her dark eyes. Sherlock’s hand curled around the item in the bag, and he looked down at it. 

At his phone. 

John drew in a sharp breath behind him, and when Sherlock looked up, there was a grim satisfaction in Donovan’s face. 

“Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest,” she said, fitting a handcuff around the wrist of his outstretched hand. Sherlock blinked at her, helpless confusion rising in his chest, and offered up his other hand when she reached for it. “For suspected murder and arson.” He felt leaden with shock, mind going blank with bewildered surprise. The handcuff settled on his bare wrist, and his head jerked around, helpless, looking at John while Sally read him his rights.

John stared back, vibrating with the rage written on his face. He met Sherlock’s stare and held it, eyes narrowing, refusing to look away. When Sherlock turned to Lestrade, the DI wouldn’t look at him. Sally took the evidence bag from him, slipping it into her pocket, and Sherlock looked back at her face again.

“Always knew it would be you,” she said. “No one believed me, but I _always knew_.” 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The cold bench of the holding cell was hard against his thighs. Sherlock barely felt it, staring at the concrete wall across from where he sat, hands clutched tight in his lap. There were faint noises, filtering through the heavy metal door with its barred window. They washed over Sherlock, pointless background sound, and he blinked, a slow, empty action. His eyes, unfocused, stared and stared, until his hands relaxed, loose on his legs. 

Sally’s words echoed in his head, and he bit his lip. 

_I always knew._

He didn’t understand. Could only grasp at bits and pieces of the puzzle. 

His phone had been found at a crime scene. Likely a murder, and a definite arson case. John had his phone. Or did. 

John had come back to his flat last night, smelling of smoke, blood on his skin and in his hair. John had a cut on his forehead, bruises on his face. John came to Baker Street and tried to warn Sherlock, make him leave, but it had come too late, Lestrade beating them to the punch.

Sally had always thought Sherlock a psychopath. A man with potential for murder. She had glowed with her own certainty, shoving his head down when she’d pushed him into the back of a police cruiser. 

The edge of the bench dug into the backs of his legs, and Sherlock stared at the wall. 

Clearly, John had made a mistake. John had been involved in what had happened, had left Sherlock’s phone behind. Given John’s rage and protective display at Baker Street, that part was likely an accident. A miscalculation. 

But why had John been there at all? 

The thought was heavy, weighing Sherlock’s head down until he tilted back, resting it against the concrete wall behind him. 

Sherlock wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t blind, even if he had tried to be for the past few days. John was dangerous, and Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. 

He rested his hands on his knees and waited, stiff-backed and breathing slow, even breaths into the heavy air of the holding cell.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The door swung open four hours later, and Lestrade stepped in. He refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and he unlocked the cuffs with slow fingers. Sherlock watched, studying the DI’s face until Lestrade finally looked up, cleared his throat, and said, “you made bail.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, following Lestrade into the hall. They walked toward the intake desk, and Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft, standing to the side with his jaw tense, his eyes narrowed. 

“Little brother,” he said, once Sherlock was close enough to hear him. “What have you done?” 

Sherlock looked at him and knew he wasn’t talking about the accusations. He clamped his mouth shut and didn’t reply, jerking his head to the side. Turning, he walked toward the exit, body vibrating with stress.

Mycroft exchanged quiet, clipped words with Lestrade before following, his shoes squeaking on the tile floor. He fell into step with Sherlock, and Sherlock quickened his pace, almost jogging to the double doors, pushing out into the afternoon.

John was pacing beside a stone bench, and he raised his head at Sherlock’s exit, stopping in mid-step. They looked at one another, and Sherlock felt frozen. 

Mycroft emerged behind him, calling out his name, and Sherlock let his feet carry him away from his brother, toward the man watching him with sharp blue eyes.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, repeating himself, voice taking on a strange edge. He sounded like he was choking. When Sherlock stopped, looking over his shoulder at him, his brother’s face was impassive once more, the mask back in place. His voice was level and even again as he repeated Sherlock’s name, adding, “Don’t.” Mycroft’s eyes flickered to John, and Sherlock’s lip curled back. 

“Thank you for paying my bail, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, tone polite, detached. “Much appreciated.”

He spun on his heel, turning his back on Mycroft’s hard face, and went to John, who welcomed him with a feral smile and open arms. 

He did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update was so long in coming. I had some other projects to work on, and I needed a break from this story. It's kind of a hard one to write, because I need to be in a certain, darker mindset, and it's heavy. Feeling rejuvenated after the break, with lots of ideas for the next chapter already.


	20. Your Innocence I Will Consume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _passing by, you  
>  light up my darkest skies.  
> you'll take only seconds   
> to draw me in._
> 
> _so be mine and your  
>  innocence I will consume.  
> dark shines,  
> bringing me down,  
> making my heart feel sore  
> because it's good._
> 
> _hold your hands up  
>  to your eyes again.  
> hide from the scary scenes,   
> suppress your fears_
> 
> _so be mine and your  
>  innocence I will consume_
> 
> **_darkshines_ \- muse**

John sent Sherlock away for his own good. For John’s safety. He needed to separate himself from the oncoming train wreck about to barrel through Sherlock’s world. So he sent him away. Listened to him thunder down the stairs, slam the front door.

He really was like a child. 

Standing up, John paced the room, prowled parallel to the bed and slammed a fist against the wall. The plaster buckled beneath his knuckles, and he ground his skin into the gap, dusty drywall drifting to the floor in a powder.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. This wasn’t part of the plan. 

It was John’s own fault. 

Growling, snarling, face twisted, warped, rabid, John grabbed at the hole he had created. Seized and pulled and wrecked the plaster with clawed hands. Bits of drywall fell on his bare feet, dusted his chest and arms, and he stepped back, panting.

The red fog hazing his eyes cleared, body going still and languid, and John pulled his lips over his bared teeth. His face calmed, aiming a dead-eyed stare at the hole he had ripped in the wall. Moving with slow, collected motions, he pulled on pants and jeans. Slipped a t-shirt over his head. Brushed chalky white dust from his hair and skin, leaving drywall shrapnel on the floor beside the bed. 

There was a knock at the front door, his phone ringing at the same moment, and John felt tranquillity settle through his body. He flipped his phone out, recognized Lestrade’s number, and smiled, a small, feral thing that darkened his face, lit up his deadened eyes. He denied the call and made his way downstairs, heart thudding in his chest in time with the rhythm of the repeated knocking at the front of the flat. 

John pulled the door open, small smile still in place, teeth glinting in the morning light, and found a group of officers on his doorstep. Lestrade and Donovan stood in front, grim faces and crossed arms, and John’s head tilted. 

“How can I help you, officers?” he asked, pleasant, demure, gripping the door with one stiff hand, arm baring the way inside. Lestrade’s eyes flicked over John’s face, moving over his shoulder.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he demanded, tone low, commanding. John’s smile widened.

“Not here,” he replied, fingers clenching on the blue wood. 

Lestrade’s face darkened, settling into hard, deep lines. Donovan shifted at his side, leaning back a little when John turned his gaze to her.

“Where is he, then?” Lestrade asked, and John’s eyes narrowed.

“How should I know?” His nails bit into the wood of the door, splinters pushing up into his fingertips. “I’m not his keeper.”

Lestrade’s lips twisted, pulling to the side. “Sure seemed like it the other day.” His arms tightened across his chest. “Sherlock said you had his phone.” 

John arched an eyebrow, a sardonic expression crossing his face. He didn’t reply, and Lestrade stared at him in silence. The moment stretched out, broken by Donovan clearing her throat.

“Well, if he’s not here, then he’s probably at Baker Street.” She flashed John a hard look. “We’ll get a warrant. Shouldn’t take long.” Her eyes narrowed, and she stared into John’s glinting eyes. “Maybe we’ll get one for here, too.” 

“By all means,” John replied, smooth, comfortable. He grinned when her cheeks flushed, annoyed that she had failed to catch him off guard. John held her gaze until she looked away again and turned his attention back to Lestrade. “Well, Detective-Inspector—if you don’t mind, I have some errands to take care of today, and this wasn’t one of them.” Nodding his head, polite smile fixed on his face, John closed the door on the group of officers, throwing the lock into place with a loud click.

He waited until footsteps moved away, counted to one hundred. He toed on his shoes, grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys, then threw himself out the door. The street was empty of police vehicles, with no sign of any remaining officers. John reached for his phone, sprinting for the main road, and cursed. He could not phone Sherlock, because the phone was gone. 

John’s fault. 

He pushed his legs, ran faster, hurtling out onto the sidewalk and waving for a cab. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

John meant to warn him as soon as he stepped into the sitting room of Baker Street. He did—he _needed_ Sherlock to run because Sherlock knew too much. Had to suspect him, had to understand what John was. 

But, once he stepped over the threshold, the urge to possess, to restate his claim, overpowered all the rest. Sherlock looked pale, sweaty, unbalanced, and John _wanted_ him. Sherlock was his, and John needed to remind him. 

They were coming, Lestrade and his officers, to take Sherlock. To take him away, away from John, to somewhere he would not be able to reach him. Unacceptable. It could not be allowed. He would need to be clever. 

The stakes were higher now. 

So he pinned him to the wall, claimed his mouth and tongue and body, and left his indelible mark on Sherlock like an oily stain. He dug his fingernails into his waist and told him to run. Told him to escape. 

Too late, much too late. 

Lestrade was a grim figure in the door, Donovan a smug presence at his side. John backed Sherlock into the corner of the sitting room, a barrier between him and the people trying to take away something that belonged to John. To him, and no one else. 

Sherlock tried to move around him, and John bit back the urge to bite him, taste his blood and bind them together. The man was like a child, oblivious to the larger picture, the sleek undertone of John’s slow work to own him, and John knew he would need to take drastic measures to keep him for himself. 

Donovan held out Sherlock’s phone, cradled in an evidence bag, and John wanted to rip it from her hand. Rip into her skin with a blade and leave her a tribute to the dark flooding through his chest. Forget the slow sensual method of his usual MO—forget the careful push and squeeze of his hands around her throat. 

She slipped handcuffs onto Sherlock’s thin wrists, and John wanted to destroy and rend her, tooth and nail, for taking what was his. 

Sherlock was led away, casting John a look over his shoulder. There was a universe of words and meaning in that look. Dismay, confusion, longing.

Acceptance. Darkness. An edge, a tipping point.

John looked out the window, watching Sherlock being forced into the back of a police cruiser, and planned his next steps. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The station was a bustle of noise and anticipation. Officers lining up to watch Sherlock paraded through. John arrived on the tail end, bristling with ownership, stalking into the building with fury vibrating through his body. Stepping through the entrance, the quaking rage fell away, face turning smooth and wary, eyes dark. 

A man stepped out to intercept him, dressed in an immaculate blue suit, black umbrella at his side. John’s lips curled at the sight of him, a momentary flicker of the burning inferno until the mask fell into place. It was an echo of the one facing him, the one this man wore, the man who had challenged him outside his own home. 

John bit into his tongue, tasted metal and salt and smiled.

“You again,” he said, and the man’s face twitched. 

“Me again,” he replied, and John stuck out a hand. The man stared at it, took the hand slowly, and shook. 

“John Watson,” John spat, and the man’s eyes narrowed.

“I know who you are.” 

John grinned, baring his teeth, his mouth a savage edge of tension. “Yes, but no one here knows that, do they?” His lips pulled back, widening the smile. “You never did tell me your name—seems rather rude.” 

The man looked him over, shifting his stiff stance. “Mycroft,” he replied, tilting his head up. “Mycroft Holmes.” 

John bit into his bottom lip, made it bleed, Mycroft’s eyes widening for a brief moment at the sight. 

“Lovely,” John growled, hands clenching into fists. “Perfect.” 

Mycroft stared at him, analyzing, his eyes, similar to Sherlock’s, focused on John with that same laser-beam gaze. 

“You can’t have him,” Mycroft said, the words pitched low, meant to not be overheard by the officers passing by their quiet altercation in the front of NSY. “He won’t go with you.”

John laughed, a sharp noise, one full of teeth and amusement. 

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” 

Mycroft’s hands tightened on the handle of his umbrella, John’s eyes flickering down at the movement. 

“I can take him away,” Mycroft said, and John’s face went blank. Still. The calm before the storm. Sherlock’s brother went on, voice solid, confident. Cocky. “You have no idea what I can do, who I am. What power I have. I can take him far away, where you would have no hope of finding him.”

John was silent, looking him over. Appraising. 

No, he did not know what this man was capable of. His expensive clothing said wealthy, and his stance spoke of power. In his jeans and a thin t-shirt, John knew he struck a plain figure. Easily unnoticed, even more easily passed over. Dismissed. 

Intentional. John had been hiding in plain sight for years, his entire life. This man walked in the sunlight, baring his power for the world to see with his high-quality wardrobe and smug presence. 

John had been ripping and tearing apart entire lives beneath the noses of everyone in London. He was not about to be cowed by a fusspot in a posh suit. 

Stepping forward, he reached out. Brushed a spot of lint from Mycroft’s shoulder, leaning in as he did so. Lips level with Mycroft’s ear, John whispered, “Yeah? You want to take Sherlock away? Take him far, far away—away from me and all this mess?” He let out a low, hungry breath, licking his bottom lip and tasting blood. “Do it, then. Go ahead.” Tilting back, he looked into Mycroft’s wide eyes, a soft, warm smile on his mouth. “I think you might be surprised by Sherlock.” Grinning, crooked, disarming, John stepped away. He fit his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shrugged, and affected a low laugh. “Glad to see Sherlock has some support, after all.” His voice was louder, carrying through the room. “Hope you can help him post bail, as I’m sure this is all a terrible misunderstanding.” 

Mycroft stood, stock-still, his face stricken. There was understanding in his look, deep and resigned, and John’s eyes narrowed with his rueful smile. 

“So nice to meet you, Mycroft Holmes,” he said, and turned on his heel, striding back out the front doors. 

Mycroft’s eyes burned holes in his back, and John tried not to laugh.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Watching Sherlock step out of the doors of NSY, John felt something loosen in his chest. Mycroft followed his brother, calling after Sherlock with a strangled quality to his voice. John bit back a smile and watched. Watched Sherlock rebuff his brother, cold and empty, leaving him behind. 

John’s skin broke out in goosebumps, excitement vibrating along his spine. Sherlock was choosing him. Turning his back on everyone, his own brother, and choosing John. 

He walked to John, and John opened his arms, Sherlock stepping into them without hesitation. There was profound fatigue in Sherlock’s eyes, carved into his face. He slumped against John’s chest with a low, needy noise that ripped into John, pooling in his stomach at the delicious vulnerability. 

“Take me home, John,” Sherlock said, and John grabbed a handful of tangled curls, pressing Sherlock’s face into his shoulder. 

“Of course, love,” he replied, and he looked at Mycroft over Sherlock’s bent back. His face was impassive, eyes unblinking, and Mycroft looked back with defeat. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Back at John’s flat, Sherlock was a pliable presence. Wounded, reserved. He sank onto the couch like a man weighted down, the world on his shoulders. He stared at the floor until his head dropped into his hands, and John had to fight not to show his glee. 

“They don’t care about you,” John said, lingering in the space between the kitchen and the sitting room. Sherlock looked up, blinked, exhaustion heavy in his face. 

“What?” he asked, and John stepped forward, prowling slow and sure to stand in front of him. 

“You’ve always been different, Sherlock.” Reaching out, he cupped Sherlock’s upturned face in his palm. “Strange. Brilliant.” Sherlock looked up at him, riveted, enraptured, hungry eyes fixed on John’s face. John smiled, a small, empty thing, and went on. “They call you weird. Call you wrong. Call you _freak_.” The words spat from his mouth, bitter, acrid. He smoothed a thumb along the sharp line of Sherlock’s jaw. “They are all idiots. Too stupid, too blind, to see what you really are.” 

Sherlock stared, mouth falling open, lips parting. John stroked his bottom lip, and Sherlock’s breath quickened. “What am I?” he asked, and John’s smile softened. 

“ _Incandescent_ ,” he replied, and he leaned down to press a delicate kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “Brilliant.” He flicked his tongue along Sherlock’s cheek, dropped light kisses over his eyelids when his eyes slid shut. “A bright, blinding light they cannot hope to dim.” John braced his hands on the back of the sofa, trapping Sherlock between them. “They’re jealous, Sherlock. Everyone is _so jealous_. They can’t see it, can’t see what I see. That you are better than all of them, above them all. You are _radiant,_ and how _dare_ they question you?” His voice turned harsh, biting, and he grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair, drawing a soft, whining sound from Sherlock’s lips. “They are _nothing_.” He pulled Sherlock’s head back, dragging his tongue over the skin strained across the ridges of Sherlock’s trachea. “And you…” he mouthed higher, sucking at the speeding pulse under Sherlock’s jaw. “You are a _god_ among men.” His mouth pulled a bruise into pale skin, and John tilted up, their lips brushing, just barely touching.

Sherlock was staring at him, breathing loud and fast. His hands hovered, hesitant, over John’s shoulders. John smiled, flicked his eyes down to Sherlock’s lips and back to his eyes.

“They would all be utterly blind without you, Sherlock. They are nothing but tiny, brainless ants. Drones. You are better than them.” He breathed out, made Sherlock shiver. “You are _everything_ they wish they could be.” Their mouths came together with crushing force, and Sherlock whimpered when John pulled hard on his hair, tongues meeting when his lips parted. 

Pulling away, John brushed his lips over Sherlock’s ear, tongue flicking out to taste his skin. 

“Don’t ever forget what you are, Sherlock. Because they will try to make you. And that would be wrong. So very wrong.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide, trusting, and John smiled.


	21. You're How I Pray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you're my religion,  
>  you're how I'm living.  
> when all my friends say  
> I should take some space—  
> well, I can't envision  
> that for a minute._
> 
> _when I'm down on my knees,  
>  you're how I pray.  
> hallelujah,  
> I need your love_
> 
> _**religion** \- lana del rey_

Btw, I made a new cover for this fic, as I didn't like the other one. Here it is:

No one ever gave him a chance. All his life, Sherlock had been judged, misunderstood, mocked. Abused by those beneath him.

John was right, his words burning into Sherlock’s head. Sherlock had always been different. Strange. An outcast. No one made an effort to know him. To _see him._

Until John. 

Sherlock knew John was not who he claimed. Knew he was more—darker. A deeper, bottomless pit Sherlock should shy away from. But John saw him, and John didn’t turn away.

Just as John refused to let him go, Sherlock refused to leave. 

John tilted back, kneeling until he was between Sherlock’s legs. Hands settling on Sherlock’s thighs, he looked up at him, a coy smile pulling at the edges of his thin lips.

“So,” he said, head cocked. “What’s the plan? How are we getting out of this?”

Sherlock stared down at him. Searched John’s blue eyes and covered one of his hands with his own. 

“Prove my innocence, I suppose,” he replied, and John’s smile widened to a sharp grin. 

“Seems like an obvious step.” His eyes darkened, narrowed, teeth sinking against his bottom lip. Sherlock noticed that it was cut, a small spot of dried blood staining the curve. He reached out, dragged his thumb over it, and felt John’s hot breath on his skin.

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s fingers curled over John’s jaw, tilting his head up as he leaned down to brush his lips over John’s cheek. “But it’s where we must begin. The only reason I have not been questioned yet—interrogated at the station—is thanks to Mycroft’s meddling. I am certain this reprieve will only be temporary.” Their noses drifted together, Sherlock dropping his hand to John’s neck with a light grasp, their mouths hovering barely apart. “Where do you think we should start?” he asked, curious for John’s answer. 

John’s lips curved beneath his, one hand rising to grip Sherlock’s wrist. “Thought that was your area,” he breathed, tongue flicking out, tracing along the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. 

Eyes half-open, eyelashes dark over a silver stare, Sherlock breathed into John’s warm skin. “Where were you the other night?” he asked, and John’s eyes slid shut. He pushed his face against Sherlock’s, humming low in his throat.

“You tell me.” John’s eyes flashed open, hard and liquid all at once, and Sherlock swallowed down a gasp. In a quick, languid movement, he was up, pushing Sherlock back against the couch, crawling over him. His powerful thighs straddled Sherlock’s waist, hands kneading against his chest with stiff fingers. Head tilting down, he ground into Sherlock, pressing their foreheads together. “ _Deduce it_ ,” he breathed, before biting at Sherlock’s bottom lip, drawing a whine from deep in his throat.

John was a tidal wave, washing him away, leaving his mind blank. His teeth sank a little deeper, and Sherlock’s clarity returned, sharpened. Sliding a hand down John’s back, he gripped his hip, pulling him closer, licking at his lips. 

“I think you were there,” he whispered, tasting John’s breath, tasting the slick, hot slide of his tongue. “I think you dropped my phone when you ran away.” His palms glided up John’s sides, fingers grabbing silvered hair.

“On purpose?” John asked, smirking, dragging his tongue along Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock shook his head, tilting it back to provide more access. John’s teeth scraped on his skin, and he shuddered. 

“No,” Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes. “I think you made a mistake.” 

John paused, mouth open against the curve of his throat. His body stiffened, then relaxed, his reply emerging in a low, sultry whisper. “You think I’m someone who makes mistakes?” he asked, and Sherlock tilted his head to the side, eyes opening. 

“Mm.” He dragged a thumb over John’s cheek, watching his eyes darken and slide to half-mast, face heavy with lust. “I think you’re human.” 

“What does that make you, then?” John said, and Sherlock groaned at the hard press of him, John grinding down into his hips. 

Sherlock’s lips parted, head falling back again, a low sigh drifting from his lungs. 

“Incandescent,” he said, and John pressed his smile to Sherlock’s neck. 

Conversation dwindled, both of them saving their breath for a slow bump and grind, hips moving together, unhurried, edged with a hint of violence that never quite broke. There was no rush, no end goal, just their bodies coming apart in a leisurely dance, fully clothed. John’s fingers dug into his shoulders, and Sherlock watched him cant his hips down and forward with hooded eyes. 

With sudden aggression, John grabbed a handful of curls, pulling Sherlock’s face to his. He sank his teeth into a tendon curving beneath the skin of Sherlock’s neck, and sucked hard, bruising the flesh. 

“I’m not going to let them take you,” he growled against Sherlock’s trapezius muscle. “Won’t let them.” 

A low, heavy whine emerged from Sherlock’s lips, pushed from tight lungs, and he locked his arms around John’s waist. 

“Of course not, John,” he replied, pressing their faces together. “They can’t take what’s yours.” 

John sat back, eyes black, pupils blown wide, consuming any light that dared to enter their depths. “Say you’re mine,” he breathed. His hand gripped Sherlock’s jaw, fingernails scraping at lightly stubbled skin. _“Say it.”_

Sherlock looked into John’s blackened gaze, heart hammering, panic rising in the back of his throat. John’s nails drew blood, a sharp sting, and Sherlock settled, the brief flash of fear dissipating as quickly as it had come.

“I’m yours, John,” he said, and John’s breathing quickened. Sherlock lifted his head, nuzzling at the warm skin beneath his chin. “I’m yours.” He pressed his lips to the same spot, tonguing over the dip of John’s throat, painting heat and saliva down to the hollow between his collar bones. 

John’s hands dug into his hips, and Sherlock whispered his name in prayer. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Later, curled up in a tangle of limbs on the sofa, John sleeping with his face pressed into his shoulder, Sherlock watched the day pass outside the window. John twitched in his sleep, body tensing, rigid and powerful, and Sherlock smoothed his hands along his spine. Waited until he stilled, breath evening out, hands tightening then loosening where they gripped Sherlock’s waist. 

It was almost vulnerable, John laying with his limbs lax, his face smooth, save for the deep lines etched at the edges of his mouth and the corners of his eyes. Looking at that face, Sherlock could all too easily see the ease with which John hid himself—hid the monster within the man. With those depthless, oceanic eyes closed, John seemed unassuming. Placid. A shallow pool. Only when they were open, was the beast present. Possible to glimpse, if you knew where to look. 

And Sherlock knew where to look. 

He slipped away from John with slow care, easing out from his grabbing hands and pushing a cushion into his place. John shifted, frowned, resettled with his cheek pressed into the fabric. Any other time, Sherlock was certain John would wake—catch him and claw him back. But now, with bruises on his face and the effects of a concussion not entirely faded, Sherlock had the upper hand. 

Standing over the sofa, he watched the slow rise and fall of John’s breathing. Ghosted a hand over his spine and thought how easy it would be to end this. End it all. End John. The thought made his breath catch, chest tensing in a painful squeeze, and Sherlock shook his head. Nothing was easy now. Nothing was simple. He was a suspect, and John was a monster.

They were all each other had. 

Leaving John to sleep in a limp sprawl on the couch, Sherlock padded upstairs, pausing on the landing. His eyes flickered over the three bedroom doors, over the bathroom and the hallway closet. He stepped toward it, pulling open the folding door, and stared at shelves of neatly folded towels and linens. Nothing tucked away from sight, the organization too rigid to hide anything. He closed the closet quietly, pausing to fold his hands beneath his chin, thinking. His eyes drifted shut. 

The room in his Mind Palace was once more in place, black door opening into a dark, shadowed space. John stood in his spot, feet planted on tiled floor, hands hanging at his sides. Sherlock paced around him, but John would only grin, all sharp angles and white teeth, refusing to speak. 

Opening his eyes, Sherlock paced down the hall, peering into the guest bedrooms. They were neat and bland, closets empty save for dust bunnies in the corners. Sherlock’s fingers clenched, digging into his palms, and he crept halfway down the stairs, peering at the sofa. 

John had rolled onto his back, cushion discarded on the floor, arms spread away from his compact body. His eyes were still closed, face relaxed in sleep, and Sherlock huffed a sigh, making his way back upstairs, to the master bedroom. 

Dropping onto his stomach, he dug under the bed, finding nothing but more dust bunnies and a stray sock. Leaping up, feet silent on the carpet, Sherlock prowled the room, looking into drawers and the dresser, finding nothing but more order, more rigid neatness. The leftovers of military life. He found an old bottle of medication for PTSD, the label faded and smudged, and tossed it back among John’s other bedside objects.

Sherlock turned to the closet, staring at the cracked open door. The sliver of dark between the frame and the door drew him closer, legs carrying him forward like a tug from a leash. He grabbed the handle with a shaking hand, creaking the closet open. 

This closet was a mess. Boxes and shoes and discarded items piled beneath neatly hung ironed shirts and jackets. Brow furrowed, Sherlock knelt, picking up a dress shoe. His fingers smoothed over soft brown leather, and he sighed. Casting the shoe aside, he dug into the mess, sorting through until his fingers hit something hard and plastic. Eyes wide, Sherlock gripped the object, pulling it out into the open with his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, excitement vibrating through him.

Before he opened the box, he knew what he would find. The lid fell open, and Sherlock sat back on his heels, looking down at the glinting scalpels. Blood edged several, and Sherlock sucked in a loud, hard breath. 

“John,” he murmured, drifting a fingertip over a handle. “Hiding in plain sight—I almost didn’t see you.” His eyes lingered on the blades, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “What a shame that would have been.” 

There was a sound below, feet hitting the floor. Sherlock hurried to push the box back beneath its pile of cover, twisting and rising to his feet as footsteps climbed the stairs, and John appeared in the hallway.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, head cocked to the side, tread slow, cautious. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

He knew. Had all the pieces of the puzzle. If he was honest with himself, he had known all along.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. John’s eyes flickered, sharp in the dark, mouth a thin, hard line.

“That so?” John stepped forward, almost into the room, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. The words fell from his lips in a rush.

“I know what you are.”

John stopped in the doorway. His head lifted, confusion passing over his face. It was a façade. All of it, a façade. Sherlock resisted the urge to smile. To clap and rejoice at finally breaking through to the truth beneath the mask.

“Sorry, love?” John’s voice was gentle, careful. 

“Are you even capable of that?” Sherlock asked, fighting against the urge to move closer. Even now, with the certainty he felt, he was still drawn to John.

Drawn to the monster.

“Am I capable of what?” Closing the door behind him, John stepped into the bedroom. “What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath, his mouth dry. “Are you even capable of love?”

Head cocked to the side, John walked toward him. Sherlock stepped back, and John paused. A slow smile curved his lips, light igniting in his vibrant eyes.

“Why do you ask?” John’s tone was interested but cold, a steel edge underlying the words. Sherlock swallowed, licking his lips.

“Because I—” he paused, standing straighter as he went over the facts again in his head. The evidence was there. The scalpels, glinting with bloodied edges, burned in his head. “Because I know it’s you. You’re him—the Grim Reaper.”

John’s teeth flashed in a wide grin. “Well done,” he murmured, taking another step forward. “Clever boy, brilliant boy.” John cooed the words, soft, exhalant. Sherlock shivered under the praise, his body reacting as John moved nearer. When John was right in front of him, he reached up, gripping Sherlock’s chin with a firm hand.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sherlock said, fighting to keep his voice even as John’s fingers stroked along the line of his jaw.

“Mm, that’s right.” John looked thoughtful. His grip tightened. “First, I have a question for you.” Tugging, he pulled Sherlock’s face toward his, their breaths mixing in a hot mess. “Is that what you want? Hm?” John dug his nails into Sherlock’s skin. “To be loved?”

The air caught in his lungs, and Sherlock’s breath stuttered out through numb lips. John went on.

“You want to know what I think?”

Sherlock stared at John’s mouth, watching the grin fall away, replaced with a dead-eyed expression that made the pit of his stomach go cold.

“I don’t think you _want_ to be loved,” John murmured, hooking his other hand around Sherlock’s hip, squeezing until Sherlock winced. “I think you want to be _praised_. Worshipped. Given _what you are owed_.” His voice was rough. Sexual and violent. “So, no—I wouldn’t say I’m ‘capable of love.’” John gripped Sherlock’s bottom lip in his teeth, delicate pressure, and tugged before sucking hard. Sherlock let out a muted whine, his hands coming up without conscious thought to latch onto John’s biceps. John smiled, making a low sound in his chest, almost a purr. “But I can give you _so much more_ , Sherlock. I can set you free if you’ll let me.” He pulled Sherlock hard against his body, bringing them flush together. “Don’t you want to have everything you deserve?”

Sherlock struggled, his brain warring with his body. His hands tightened on John’s arms, released, and clenched again. He stared down into John’s bottomless eyes, and he felt he might drown.

John may not be capable of love, but Sherlock had no such restriction.

Chest constricting, fear warring with temptation, a soft, choked sound slipped from his throat, a strangled gasp of, _“John.”_

“Yes, Sherlock,” John hissed through barred teeth. “Yes, baby. Brilliant boy, perfect.” His hands grabbed at Sherlock’s face, and John brought their mouths together. There was a violent edge to the kiss, John biting at his lips, hands bruising Sherlock’s hip and waist as he pulled him against his body. _“Yes.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I finally figured out an ending for this story. Will likely be at least a few more chapters (or more), but I think we're in the home stretch! Also, I am working on two Fandom Trumps Hate fics, so updates for this might be delayed, but I'll do my best!


	22. Soaked in Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _break the skin,  
>  ‘cos I can’t tell where your body ends and mine begins  
> tear the flesh,  
> I woke today feeling like some kind of masochist_
> 
> _you manifest,  
>  you bring things to be  
> yeah, your mojo witchcraft, honey, it's working on me,_
> 
> _I must confess,  
>  pull, beg, and plead  
> that I need your kiss like the ocean needs a breeze_
> 
> _I go off like a gun, like a loaded weapon  
>  bang, bang, bang, grip me in your hands  
> so here we go again_
> 
> _it echoes in my head  
>  bang, bang, bang, grip me in your hands  
> so I can feel you here with me_
> 
> _soaked in sin,  
>  baptized by your kiss  
> and now I’m born again_
> 
> _bite your lip,  
>  wrap my hands around your head  
> and pull you in_
> 
> _I can’t catch my breath  
>  sleep, think, or speak  
> yeah, your mojo witchcraft, honey  
> it’s working on me_
> 
> _so let’s make a mess  
>  tear up the sheets  
> every whisper you speak  
> sends a shiver through me_
> 
> _**bang** \- armchair cynics_

Sherlock pressed into him, melting beneath John’s fevered kisses, his roaming hands. John stepped forward, steering him deeper into the room, walking until the backs of Sherlock’s legs hit the bed. He tilted, stumbled, and fell back into the sheets, John following. 

“God,” John breathed, stroking a hand up Sherlock’s thigh, along the jut of his hip and over his abdomen, to his chest. “I want to _devour_ _you.”_ He grinned, listening as Sherlock’s breath caught, and sped up. “You want me to make you feel good, baby?” John murmured. His lips traced over the severe lines of Sherlock’s collar bones, tasting skin with teeth and tongue. “You want me to make you scream?”

A low, needy moan drifted from Sherlock’s open mouth, and John gripped handfuls of his hair. Pulled until Sherlock whimpered, kissing his lips roughly. Soft curls wrapping around his fingers, John tasted Sherlock’s tongue, his mouth, licked down to his neck and added another dark bruise to the ones from earlier. Sherlock writhed beneath him, clawing at John’s shirt until John leaned back, tugging it off over his head. Tossing it to the floor, he descended on Sherlock, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, sliding it off his shoulders and fastening his mouth over a nipple. His tongue flicked, circled, Sherlock’s fingernails digging into his back, scratching along his spine. 

John leaned back, drawing his hands down Sherlock’s bare chest, to his waist. “Take these off,” he demanded, hooking his fingers in the belt loops and tugging Sherlock up into a sitting position. “Strip for me.” He rocked back on his heels, slipping off the bed to watch. Sherlock licked his lips, looking up at him. 

Scooting back on the bed, he sat on his knees, butt pushing back to his heels. Holding John’s gaze, Sherlock stroked his hands down his own bent thighs, and back up, long fingers slowly releasing the first button at the top of his fly. He undid the second, pushing the trousers open as he fell back on his elbows, hips twitching, shimmying the pants down his spread legs. 

John watched him hungrily, lips parted, panting breath loud in the room. Reaching out, he bent, grabbing the trousers as they were pushed to Sherlock’s ankles. John tugged them off, tossing them to the floor before dropping onto his hands on the bed, feet still on the floor. He leaned over Sherlock, breathing hot air over his bare legs. His tongue flicked along the inside curve of a pale thigh, dipping and swinging his body forward, knees dropping onto the edge of the mattress, hovering over Sherlock’s calves.

“Beautiful,” John praised, breathy and rough-voiced, dipping down lower to drag his lips over the jut of Sherlock’s left hip. Sherlock jerked, skin breaking out in goosebumps. A quiet moan escaped his lips, and John flicked his eyes upward, looking at Sherlock from beneath pale eyelashes and heavy lids. Holding his gaze, John shifted forward, lips parting, his mouth pushing hot and damp against Sherlock’s growing erection through the fabric of his blue underpants. Sherlock’s breath caught, hips twitching at the contact, and John smirked. 

“Tell me,” he rumbled, nuzzling his face into the hardening flesh between Sherlock’s legs. “Tell me how much you want it.” 

“Please,” Sherlock breathed, head falling back, arms trembling as they held him up. “Please, John. Oh—!” John’s tongue traced the outline of his cock, darkening the material with his spit. “Oh, god, John, _please._ ”

John’s grin widened, and he shifted higher, dropping his weight on Sherlock’s body. Their mouths slotted together, John’s tongue pushing between his lips, nails dragging over Sherlock’s side, along the lines of his ribs. Sherlock fell back, arms giving out, hitting the mattress with a soft _whump_. John followed him down, kissing him again and again, rutting down between Sherlock’s legs in slow, teasing movements of his hips. He began to kiss Sherlock’s jaw, trailing open-mouthed worship down his neck, along his collar bones. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in short, stuttering bursts. 

John’s tongue dipped into his belly button and Sherlock’s hips jerked up, a surprised cry leaving him. John chuckled, a low, dark sound, scraping his teeth over the crease of Sherlock’s inner thigh. “Posh boy,” he murmured, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, drawing them down slowly, achingly slow. “Clever boy, brilliant.” He tossed the underwear to the floor with Sherlock’s trousers, dropping off the bed. Grabbing Sherlock by the hips, he yanked him to the edge of the mattress, kneeling on the floor, Sherlock’s legs hanging off the bed. 

His hands digging into Sherlock’s thighs, John licked at the crook of his knee, teasing, hinting at more. He tasted salt and desperation, his mouth watering in response. Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes, huffing, chest tight, body aching with need.

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, John.” 

John smiled against his skin, sliding a hand up to brush the sensitive underside of Sherlock’s arousal. He jerked at the contact, breath catching, eyes rolling back. John laughed, muted, before shifting up and replacing fingers with tongue, rasping root to tip over Sherlock’s cock. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the head, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open, a gasp ripped from his lungs. 

“Oh, god,” he whined. He slid his fingers into his own hair, grabbing curls, crushing them beneath his palms, pleasure rolling through his body at the warm heat of John’s mouth. John took him into his mouth, tongue sliding in slow flicks along the length. _“John…”_

Hands gripping his hips, John dipped his head down, swallowing around the head of Sherlock’s cock, lips dragging as he bobbed back. His mouth opened, Sherlock’s erection pillowed on his tongue, and he smiled.

“Mm, baby,” he whispered, licking pre-cum from the tip. “You don’t know how good you taste.” 

Sherlock’s only response was a strangled noise, body twitching, breaking out in a sweat. He clawed at John’s neck and shoulders, whimpering, needing more. “John—” he breathed, desperate. “I need—I want—” 

John’s lips slipped off Sherlock’s cock with an obscene slurp, and he climbed up Sherlock’s body to stare into his wide-open eyes. “Tell me what you want,” he said, bringing his hips down to press their bodies together.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock whispered, grabbing John by the hair and bringing their mouths together. “I want you—I want you inside of me.” He said the words against John’s lips, voice rasping, hooking a leg around John’s hips and seeking friction. 

“Yes,” John growled, bending to nip at Sherlock’s jaw. “Oh, yes, Sherlock.” He claimed his mouth again, sliding one hand down, finger tracing over the curve of Sherlock’s hip, slipping around beneath him. He gripped a handful of Sherlock’s arse, kneading, biting his bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. 

When John’s hand slipped lower, finger teasing at the tense ring of muscle, Sherlock’s back arched, breath shattering with a loud moan. John grinned against his mouth, licking the side of Sherlock’s neck, working the tip of the same finger slowly into Sherlock’s body. 

“That’s it,” he hummed, moaning at Sherlock’s breathy noises, lips pressed to the soft skin beneath Sherlock’s ear. “Relax, baby. Relax.” His voice became a low croon, soothing and lewd, working until he could slip the finger in up to the second knuckle. Sherlock flinched, tight and resistant, and John leaned away to dig lube out of the bedside table. He slicked his finger, pushing back in, coaxing until Sherlock began to loosen. 

By the time he made it to three fingers, Sherlock was writhing, face and chest flushed dark red. His cock twitched, arching up against his lower stomach. John felt his need, thrumming through his shivering skin.

“John,” he pleaded, shimmying his hips, struggling for more. “Please, I can’t—” 

John pressed a sharp smile against Sherlock’s neck, flicking his tongue over the twisting tendons beneath Sherlock’s flushed skin. “On your stomach,” he commanded, tugging at the lobe of Sherlock’s ear with his teeth. His fingers slipped out, wiping lube on the sheets, and Sherlock rushed to comply. He flopped over onto his stomach in a mess of gangly limbs, looking over his shoulder as John slicked himself with slow, greasy pulls of his newly lubricated fist. He stared at Sherlock with dark eyes, tongue tracing over his bottom tongue.

“Tell me how much you want it,” he said, leaning over, his chest pressing to Sherlock’s back, one hand gripping his hip with bruising force. “Tell me how badly you want to feel my cock inside of you.” 

“More than anything.” The words choked out of Sherlock, pushed through his clenched teeth. John smiled, sharp angles and smug control, and gripped Sherlock’s head by a handful of curls. 

“Good,” he hissed, sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock cried out, head pulled back by John’s grip in his hair. His body tensed, then relaxed, quivering at the feeling of John lining himself up. The head of his cock pressed at Sherlock’s hole, met brief resistance, and pushed past. 

Sherlock’s body tightened, panting, John pushing into him in a hard, aggressive slide. After an initial flash of pain, Sherlock crying out, tears welling at the corners of his eyes, John was fully seated, his hips flush against Sherlock’s arse. John shoved Sherlock’s face into the mattress by the hand in his hair, his cheek scraping against the sheets. He made a faint, fearful sound, vulnerable beneath John’s force. 

John began to move, drawing his hips back and forward in a smooth glide, and the panic seemed to recede, Sherlock twitching with pleasure. He moaned, a long, heavy sound from deep in his chest, John’s fingers curling tight around his hips. 

“That’s it,” John murmured, releasing Sherlock’s hair to stroke soothing lines down his bent back. “There you go, baby. Just relax.” Sherlock shivered, goosebumps rising in the wake of John’s hand passing over his skin. He began a slow, building rhythm, moving in smooth thrusts, making Sherlock melt into the sheets. “God, Sherlock—you feel _so good._ ” 

“Faster.” The demand choked out past Sherlock’s lips, his teeth digging into the bottom, eyes half-open and darkened with desire. John grinned, pressing his wicked smile to Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“You sure?” he asked, coy. Sherlock nodded, eyes shut, hands scrabbling at the bed. John’s hot breath wafted against his cheek, then was gone. There was a pause, and John pulled back, his hips snapping forward. It was aggressive, harsh, and Sherlock keened, his body collapsing to the sheets. John followed, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s waist and pounding into him. Each thrust was punctuated by the loud slap of skin on skin, and the high, helpless panting cries Sherlock made every time John plunged into him. 

The rhythm quickened, the sound of their breathing rising, intermingling, filling the room in an ebb and flow of a distant tide. Sherlock’s body tightened, tensing, cock twitching with him teetering on the edge of climax. “Oh,” he whined. “Oh, _oh_.” 

“Shhh.” John pressed his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, deceptively gentle in contrast to his brutal thrusts. “I’ve got you, beautiful.” His fingers trailed over Sherlock’s back, along his side and over his waist. Drifting lower, he took Sherlock in hand, pumping in quick, efficient motions. Sherlock’s arms shot out, nails catching in the bedding, and his head lifted as he came, body shuddering with a loud shout. The sound dwindled to softer whines, small shakes rocking his form as he rode out the climax, gasping, eyes wide. 

John snarled against his shoulder. _“Fuck!”_ The curse hissed from his bared teeth, spat with aggression. Wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock’s waist, he went rigid, spasming through his own orgasm. He gasped Sherlock’s name out, mouth against Sherlock’s skin, nails digging into the flesh of his sides as he came. He filled him, the body beneath him loose and heavy with endorphins. John collapsed on top of Sherlock, spent, and they lay in a panting heap, sheets sticky and wet with Sherlock’s release and their sweat. 

Pulling out, John rolled onto his side, off of Sherlock’s damp, sprawled body. Sherlock blinked at him, eyes half-closed, face slack, panting in slow, soft breaths. John curled a possessive hand over the sharp jut of his jaw, leaning forward to lathe his tongue at the pulse point on his neck.

“Delicious,” he whispered, smirking at Sherlock’s delicate shiver. Cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, he kissed him slowly, achingly, sucking at his top lip and swallowing down Sherlock’s soft moan. When John leaned back, his eyes were sharp, alight with something ominous. Baleful. His grip tightened, and his lips curled back over his teeth. “I meant it when I said they can’t take you away.” His eyes narrowed, Sherlock blinking in rapid bursts, an edge of almost fear passing over his face. But John barred his teeth, a shark’s grin, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, love,” he said, breathing the words over Sherlock’s skin. “I have a plan.” 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

John walked through NSY, ignoring the bustle and noise of phones and officers. Passing desks and doors, he paused, looking toward Lestrade’s office at the end. 

It was empty.

Turning, his eyes scanned the room, face blank, thoughts shifting rapidly through his head. A hand came down on his shoulder, followed by a voice, and he twisted around.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

John looked into the face of Sally Donovan, and he smiled. 

“I was hoping to talk to DI Lestrade,” he said, and her eyes narrowed.

“He’s out for the day, actually,” she replied. Leaning a hip against her desk, she folded her arms across her chest, studying him. “Maybe I can help.” 

John’s smile widened, a flash of teeth before his face settled. “You know,” he said, slowly, head tilting to the side. “Maybe you can.” 

Sally stared at him, appraising, then sank into her chair. “What is it?” The words were clipped.

“Kind of rude,” John said, and she rolled her eyes.

“You want me to help or not?” she snapped, and John bit his lip to keep his calm. His hands flexed, fingers rigid, powerful, and he tucked them into his pockets. Sally followed the movement with her eyes, looking back to his face, wary. 

John nodded, affecting a more submissive stance, shoulders slumped. When he spoke, he pushed a tremour into his voice, finding a slightly higher tone. “It’s about Sherlock,” John said, and Sally perked up. Resisting a smile, he swallowed, looking away with a nervous twitch, trying not to lay it on too thick.

“What has that psychopath done now?” Sally asked, and John’s hands clenched into fists in his pockets. 

“You have to help me—I think he might have done it.” Turning his head back, John looked down at the policewoman, eyes wide. “He’s a monster. He needs to be locked away.”

A flicker of confusion passed over Sally’s face, brows lowering over her suspicious eyes. “You seemed fairly certain of his innocence when we came by Baker Street.” Her words were slow, emphatic. John grimaced. His mind ticked away, pulling the story together.

“I was scared,” he mumbled, slipping his hands from his pockets, wringing them together. Fidgeting uneasily. “I—he made me. _Forced me_ to…to put on a show.” His face crumpled, tears welling in his eyes. Sally jerked back, shock and horror creasing her mouth. Behind the façade, John revelled in the control he was working over the situation. 

“What did he do to you?” Sally asked, and John looked away. Winced, rubbing at his arm. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered, eyes flicking back to her. “Not—not here.” His expression wilted, pleading, eyes damp.

Sally hesitated. Stared at him, her teeth sawing into her bottom lip. She glanced at the empty office at the other end of the room, tapped a finger on the desk, and looked back at John. He could see the thoughts on her face, uncertainty warring with sympathy. She wanted so badly to believe him—to believe that Sherlock was the monster. 

When she nodded, John’s breath caught in his throat. A thrill rolled through his body, electricity along his spine, and he forced the gasp into a sob of relief. “Thank you,” he breathed, relieved. “Thank you.” 

Sally nodded again, standing, reaching for her coat. “Come on—there’s a coffee shop down the street. Let’s grab something warm and take a walk.” 

John smiled and followed, letting her lead the way out of the building. He swallowed the smile down, face turning blank.

He knew they would never make it to the coffee shop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! because I am an uncontrollable angst monster, I came up with a second ending for this story. and I love them both, so I am going to do something a little different. I've added a final chapter count of 27, but the story will likely end at chapter 25, after which I will include the alternate ending (a darker version, likely MCD) and a deleted scene that didn't quite make it into the fic. I am doing this because, having had so many people following along with this story from the beginning, I do not want to drop a sudden, untagged and un-warned MCD, as I know that is something a lot of people do not like to read. I will give another warning when we reach that chapter, after the non-MCD ending, so those who want to read it can, and those who don't can take a pass on it. either way, everyone gets an ending, some will get two, and hopefully, everyone will be happy! 
> 
> I have also made the decision to focus solely on this story until it is finished, so I can then dedicate my time to my Fandom Trumps Hate fics. hopefully, that means I will have this one finished fairly soon. 
> 
> I mean, as happy as y'all can be reading a serial killer fic 😏
> 
> thanks everyone for following along with this massive journey! your comments keep me going and give me life, and I love y'all for letting me write this dark angst fest.


	23. You'll Be the Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _open my chest and colour my spine  
>  I'm giving you all, I'm giving you all  
> swallow my breath and take what is mine,  
> I'm giving you all, I'm giving you all_
> 
> _I'll be the blood if you'll be the bones  
>  I'm giving you all, I'm giving you all  
> so lift up my body and lose all control  
> I'm giving you all, I'm giving you all_
> 
> _I can see through you, we are the same  
>  it's perfectly strange, you run in my veins.  
> how can I keep you inside my lungs?  
> I breathe what is yours, you breathe what is mine_
> 
> _**wolves without teeth** \- of monsters and men_

**December 7**

Sherlock woke to find himself alone in John’s bed. His body ached, a heavy throb beneath his tailbone, and he winced, pulling himself up into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. Something caught his eye, and he reached out, picking up a note from the bedside table. It was from John.

_Taking care of some business. Shower and eat, then meet me at the Battersea power station at 2:30._

_John._

Glancing at the bedside clock, Sherlock noted the time as 11:30. He re-read the note, lips tight. 

_Taking care of some business._

His thoughts flashed back to last night before he had fallen asleep, tangled up with John in the mutual mess they had made of the sheets. 

_Don’t worry, love. I have a plan._

Sherlock swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and slipped out of bed. He hesitated, eyes flicking to the cracked open closet, the darkness within seeming to fold around the small plastic case he knew rested beneath a pile of boxes and shoes. He shook his head, tearing his gaze away and headed toward the bathroom. 

Beneath the shower stream, Sherlock tilted his head back, water pouring over his upturned face and closed eyes. Droplets traced along his bare skin, over the curve of his neck and hips. Bruised marked the hollow of this thighs and a dull ache throughout his body. He scrubbed soap over the darkening marks and watched suds swirl around his feet. 

By the time he stepped out of the shower, towelling off with a wince, it was near noon. Sherlock dressed, shoved his hair into some semblance of control, and ate a piece of dry toast in the kitchen. He felt heavy, listless, and leaned against the kitchen counter with dull eyes. 

Everything was such a mess. 

Sherlock sat in the sitting room, looking out the window with aimless focus, face blank. He didn’t enter his Mind Palace, didn’t make any effort to observe. Just sat and stared and waited for the seconds to tick by. 

Once the clock on the wall read 2:00, he shrugged into his coat, hailed a cab, and gave the directions for Battersea. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The cab pulled up to the dark, empty building, idling on the faded curb. The driver leaned forward, peering up at the cracking façade of the old power station. 

“Why do you want to be dropped off here?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. Sherlock avoided his eye, digging bills out of his wallet.

“Meeting a friend,” he mumbled, passing over the fare. The man took it, eyes shifting back to the building. 

“Funny place to meet someone,” he said, and Sherlock ignored him, sliding out of the cab without a word. He closed the door behind him and looked up at the building. The cab idled for a moment, the man clearly hesitant. Sherlock refused to look, and the driver finally pulled away, executing a U-turn.

Sherlock was left alone, staring at the old structure with something hot and sharp burning deep in his stomach. Pulling in a breath, lungs tight, he approached the front doors, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. The air was chill, blowing through his still-damp hair, and he shivered. His feet dragged, the door coming up too fast despite his desire to avoid it entirely. 

Stepping into the dark hall, he looked around. Dust swirled in the light filtering in through the windows, some just gaping holes in the walls, products of vandalism. 

“John?” he called, voice muted by the weight of abandoned, silent years on the location. Silence stretched back, yawning in the dark, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, squinting. “John?”

“Sherlock.”

The voice drifted to him through the oppressive quiet, and John emerged from an open doorway, the door hanging from its hinges on the frame. Sherlock turned toward him, wary. John raised his hands, sharp smile in place, strolling into the squares of light slanting through the windows. There was something in his left hand, clutched in curled fingers. Sherlock looked at it, watching the black ripple of fabric undulate down along John’s wrist.

“What’s that?” he asked, and John’s grin softened, harsh edges gentling. His eyes were dark, liquid, and Sherlock felt a tremour run up his spine.

“I have a present for you,” John said, stepping closer. “A surprise.” He moved slowly, cautious, like Sherlock might be spooked by any sudden movements. Sherlock watched him, hands still buried in his pockets. 

“What kind of surprise?” Sherlock’s voice was guarded, and he swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth and throat. 

John’s lips parted, and he stepped up to Sherlock with an uncharacteristically tender expression on his face. Reaching out, he brushed the knuckles of his left hand over Sherlock’s cheek, the strip of black fabric clutched between his fingers tickling Sherlock’s skin. Despite the ominous uncertainty humming in the back of his head, Sherlock leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed.

“Wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?” John murmured, and his thumb smoothed along the jut of Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock studied his face, slowly nodded. John’s smile widened, still just as soft, and he cupped the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, and Sherlock obliged, after a moment of pause. 

The fabric covered his eyes. A blindfold, yielding against his skin. He felt John tying a knot against his hair, fingers deft and confident. 

Warm skin brushed his lips, John’s breath hot on his face. 

“Trust me,” he whispered, and Sherlock nodded. He felt John’s smile against his mouth, his tongue at the corner of his lips, and then cold air as John’s footsteps shuffled back. A hand drifted along his shoulder, down his arm, strong, compact fingers gripping his. “Little steps,” John said, coaxing, leading him forward. “Go slow.” 

Sherlock followed John’s pull, breath uneven, navigating an uneven floor without his sight. It felt wrong, dangerous. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, and John’s steady breathing guided him onward. 

John’s hand touched his back, and Sherlock jumped, flinching away from the sudden unexpected contact. John’s fingers stroked over his spine, soothing, and he tried to relax. “This way,” John murmured, pushing gently. “Watch your step.” 

They passed into another room, the musty air of the open space making Sherlock think of high ceilings and reaching walls. He inhaled, tasting dust, disuse, and fear. A metallic tang that sat heavy on the back of his tongue.

“John…” he said, trepidation making his hands shake. “What is this?”

John shushed him, low, kind, caressing the tense lines of Sherlock’s shoulders. “Trust me,” he said again, and Sherlock sucked in a loud breath. They walked forward, John’s hand solid against the small of his back until John spoke again. “Stop.” 

Sherlock halted, fingers curling and unfurling. The acrid, bitter bite of metal was stronger. The taste was hot, salty. Familiar—tasted at countless crime scenes.

“John—” he began again, and then John’s hands were on his face, bracketing, fingers splayed over his cheeks. 

“Hush, Sherlock.” John’s voice was still soft, but a harder edge belied his tone, and Sherlock fell silent, lips pressing together. He waited, and John’s hands finally left his face. There were footsteps, receding then returning. John’s grip circled the wrist of his right hand, and something was pressed against his palm. Sherlock curled his fingers around cold metal and deadly lines. It was heavy and only distantly recognizable. 

Hefting the gun, Sherlock’s breath caught, and his eyes flew open wide, despite the blindness of the black fabric tied over his sight. 

“What is this?” he said, slowly, and John’s thumbs stroked over his cheekbones. 

“Your surprise.” 

The blindfold came off, and Sherlock opened his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next several chapters are going to be a bit short, but I've already written the one after this, so don't fret. I'm gonna push to get this done by either today or tomorrow, so fingers crossed!


	24. Sink Down, Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you understand, I got a plan for us  
>  I bet you didn’t know that I was dangerous  
> it must be fate, I found a place for us  
> I bet you didn’t know someone could love you this much_
> 
> _I’ve gotta get out of here  
>  sink down, into the dark  
> keep on runnin'_
> 
> _and I’ve gotta get out of here  
>  keep on runnin'  
> sink down, into the dark_
> 
> _**dangerous** – big data_

The blindfold fell from Sherlock’s eyes, fluttering to the floor, released by John’s open hands. The silvery light of his gaze shone in the dark, and he blinked slowly, vision adjusting to the gloom. 

John watched with hunger in his mouth, tongue pushed to the edge of his bottom lip, breath caught in his lungs. Sherlock stared at him before looking at the gun in his hand. Black and sleek, Sherlock’s fingers looked paper-pale against the brushed metal. The serial number had long since been filed off, the last physical connection of the weapon to John’s military past. John watched Sherlock rub his thumb against the rough jut of the file marks. 

He raised his eyes to John again with a silent question. 

Stepping forward, John slid an arm around his waist, pulling him into his body. Sherlock was warm, small tremours rippling through his long limbs, and John held him tight to his chest. 

“What is this?” Sherlock asked, studying John’s eyes, his own narrowing. “Why do you have this?”

“It’s my old service revolver,” John breathed, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of the man in his arms. Shampoo, soap, and dust from moving through the building. The faint, bitter smell of fear. John smiled, pressing his nose to Sherlock’s temple. “Surely, you could figure that out?”

Sherlock shivered, fingers clenching around the gun. “Of course,” he murmured, tracing a finger along the smooth metal. “Obvious.” 

John’s smile shifted to a grin, and he tilted back to look into Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes, the dim light turning them mercurial. “Are you ready for your surprise?” Sherlock’s head jerked up, a soft breath puffing from his full lips.

“This—this isn’t it?” he asked, lifting the gun slowly, pointed at the ground, as if uncertain of the strength required to lift it. 

John shook his head, lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s free hand. Silent, tilting his head in a coy invitation, he tugged Sherlock after him, toward a closed door. Sherlock followed, gun held at his side, his expression unreadable. 

They stepped through as John pushed the door open, into a smaller room. Light poured in from large windows on three sides, illuminating the space with soft gold. Sherlock walked past John, into the painted light. He looked over his shoulder, pupils widening then contracting, vision adjusting to the sudden brightness. The glow illuminated him in a halo, a stark contrast to his white skin and dark hair. He looked truly incandescent, backlit like a veritable angel, and John’s breath caught. 

In that moment, he almost felt capable of love.

Sherlock looked at him until John nodded over his shoulder, and he turned, brow furrowing. His breath rushed out of him in a sudden exhale, sharp and shocked, the sound drifting to John through the gold-edged air. Stepping forward, John touched Sherlock’s arm with light fingers, smiling at the profile of his stunned face. 

“Surprise,” he said, and Sherlock looked at him with dazed eyes. 

“What is this?” Sherlock’s voice was almost a groan, a sound similar to someone with the air knocked out of them. His hand, the one not holding a gun, went to his stomach, arm crossing over his abdomen. For a moment, Sherlock looked like he might bend and double over, then straightened. His throat shifted, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, staring at John. 

“I said I would set you free,” John replied. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, slow and possessive, and pressed his lips to his jaw. “This is how.”

Sherlock stared at him, silent for a long, tense moment. His hand shook around the gun, and his breath stuttered out. John gave him a light squeeze with his arm, then placed his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back and pushed, gentle encouragement to move forward. Sherlock took one, two, three coltish steps, and stumbled to a stop. He cast John another look, then turned to the sight before them. John looked, too, tearing his eyes from Sherlock’s pallid face to the chair set in the shadows hugging the far wall, and the woman secured to it. 

Sally Donovan hung from her restraints, wrists and ankles bound to the chair. Her face was slack, eyes closed. A large, discoloured bruise darkened her right cheek, and a thin line of blood trickled from a swollen bottom lip. John grimaced at the visible, brutal violence, so outside of his usual patterns. But she had fought, and hard. Scratches marred his shoulders and chest, left by her desperate nails. There had been no unassuming civilian surprise in the policewoman when John had jumped her, down the street from the station. 

“Sherlock,” he called, and the detective tore his gaze from the unconscious woman, looking back over his shoulder at John, who smiled at him. “The gun.” He nodded at the weapon at Sherlock’s side, golden light reflecting off the sinister black metal. “Use the gun.”

Sherlock looked at him, and then his face twisted with understanding. Horror dawned in his eyes, and John surged forward. Lifted his arms and bracketed Sherlock’s skull with his hands.

“You can do it,” he breathed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s jaw. “I know you can. You want to be free, right?” Sherlock was staring into his eyes, his own wide and disoriented. Wild. He nodded, a feral fear passing over his face, and John stroked a thumb slowly along a cheekbone. “Do it,” he whispered, sharing Sherlock’s warm breath, standing chest to chest. “You can do it.” 

Sherlock turned from him, still maintaining the contact between their bodies. He looked at Sally, then at the gun, lifting it closer to his face. He studied the firearm, silvery-blue eyes sharp, darkened. Sherlock shifted his focus back to Donovan, and she let out a quiet groan, head tilting up.

She looked at Sherlock from half-open eyes, dazed, and Sherlock went stiff against John’s arm. 

“Shh.” John stroked his hands down Sherlock’s shoulders, his sides, tangling fingers in sweat-dampened hair. “Baby— _baby_.” He repeated the endearment, forcing emphasis into his voice until Sherlock looked at him again. John cupped his cheek in the palm of his hand and looked him in the eye. “You can do it.” 

Hands shaking, Sherlock plucked at John’s shirt with the hand empty of a gun, and anguish darkened his skin. “I—I can’t, John,” he whispered, eyes flicking briefly back to Donovan, then to John. “I can’t.”

John slid his hand over Sherlock’s, curling their joined hands over the gun. He nodded encouragement, gradually helping him lift the weapon. He opened his mouth to speak, and was cut off by Donovan’s voice, shattering the moment and making Sherlock jerk violently. 

“Don’t do it, Sherlock.” The sergeant raised her head, looking right at Sherlock. “I know I always said you were…well, you know what I always said.” She paused, uncertain, eyes flickering to John and back to Sherlock. “But I was wrong. And I’m sorry. If I had known that _he_ was—what he really is—” her gaze locked on John, a dark scowl twisting her bruised features. “ _You’re_ the real monster,” she spat, and John grinned at her, unperturbed in the least.

“Right under your noses the whole time,” he said, and Sally nodded, face hard with disgust and anger. 

“Right there, yes,” she replied and nodded at Sherlock. “You’re not going to let him go, are you?” 

The smile slipped off John’s face, and he felt something cold take its place. Sherlock shifted at his side, and John tightened his grip on his hand. 

“No,” he said, the finality in his low tone echoing in the dusty space. “No, I’m not.” Sally shot Sherlock a look, one of distressed understanding. Sherlock looked back at her, and his breathing was loud.

“Don’t let him erase you,” she told him, and Sherlock’s eyes widened. His hand trembled beneath John’s, and John held him firmer, nails digging into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s fingers. Sally added, “because he will, Sherlock. What you give him will never be enough, and, ultimately, he will consume you.” She stared at John, and her eyes were murky. “He is a black hole.” 

John cleared his throat, barking out a laugh that startled both Donovan and Sherlock, making the detective jump, and the sergeant blanche. 

“So poetic,” John snapped, hard voice cold with amusement. “You speak as if from experience.” Sally’s quirked mouth confirmed his suspicion, and he nodded, understanding. He looked at Sherlock, stroking a finger over his knuckles. “Put her out of her misery, Sherlock—it’s time you found your freedom.”

Sherlock swallowed, fingers tightening around the gun. He stepped forward, arm rising, light flashing off gunmetal as he moved deeper into the room. Watching him standing there, looking at Sally, haloed in golden sunlight, John ached. Ached to claim and own him. To tear him apart, and ingest every single piece until Sherlock was part of him on a cellular level. 

Sherlock levelled the gun, and John’s teeth caught on his bottom lip, a surge of animal lust ripping through his body. But then Sherlock turned, his arm dropping. The gun thumped against the side of his leg, and his face was a twisted mess.

John’s heart sank. 

“I can’t,” Sherlock said, and the defeat in his voice was tangible in the air between them. “I can’t do it.” 

John halted, stunned, pinned in place by a swell of frustrated disappointment. The rush was replaced seconds later by a possessive protectiveness that startled him. It pushed him forward on strong legs, hands and arms reaching for Sherlock. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he said, voice oh so gentle. “It’s okay, baby—it’s okay.” Sherlock caved against his chest, and John wrapped him in the cage of his arms, taking the gun from him, free hand running up Sherlock’s back and into his hair. “You don’t have to, it’s okay.” His fingers dug into curls, pressing Sherlock’s face to his shoulder “It’s okay, baby. I’m not mad.” His lips brushed over Sherlock’s temple, fierce ownership making his voice rough and deep. “You’ve done so well, Sherlock,” he breathed, fingers ghosting along the curve of his skull. “So well…” 

Sherlock tilted into John, leaning against him, fisting his hands in the front of his shirt. His breathing was loud and heavy, and John breathed him in, inhaling sweat and a faint hint of gun oil, rubbed into Sherlock’s skin.

“John,” Sherlock murmured. John tightened his grip in his hair.

“Yes, baby,” he whispered, nuzzling at Sherlock’s neck with his nose. Sherlock began to relax, body loosening. John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, catching Donovan’s dark-eyed uneasy stare. “Clever boy,” he said, listening to Sherlock’s breathing beginning to even out. John shifted, the muscles in his left arm twisting as it lifted. “Beautiful boy.” Sherlock raised his head, and his eyes flew open. 

He looked down at John, and John looked back. 

The gun went off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, then it will be the alternate ending and the deleted scene!


	25. I Can Still Taste the Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the evil within has never been greater  
>  my soul has been seized and he's the dictator  
> I've been dragged through the mud  
> I can still taste the blood  
> oh lord, what have become of me?_
> 
> _**lucifer** – XOV_

**One Year Later**

Sherlock watched the slow drift of clouds beyond the window, draping across the vibrant blue sky over a dense cluster of trees in the distance. Sunlight lanced down as the cloud cover parted, lighting the view with a hue of gold.

An image flashed in his head, of blood and the sound of a gunshot. 

Sherlock’s eyes flew wide, then shut, and he curled his hands into fists. Nails digging at skin, he shoved his knuckles against his temples, pressing until pressure built in his skull. The memory rolled on, unfettered and unimpeded, even as he bit down on his tongue, tasting blood.

Sally Donovan’s sightless eyes and gore-painted face. John’s blank expression as he lowered the gun, watching blood darken the floor and trickle toward them over faded concrete. 

Sinking into a chair, Sherlock curled his long legs beneath him. Face pressed to the backing, he pulled in a deep breath. Blackness echoed in his head, and he closed his eyes again, letting the flashback pull him back to Battersea. Back to a year ago, with the metallic tang of blood heavy enough in the air to taste. 

He recalled the curl of John’s hand on the back of his skull. The rasp of nails against skin, tangling in his curls, and the ripple of muscle in John’s left shoulder, his arm raising. Sherlock’s eyes had opened, momentarily blinded by the slanted sunlight filling the room, focusing on John’s empty face.

The gun had gone off, the report deafening in the empty room, in its proximity to Sherlock’s head. He had rocked forward, curling against John’s chest, hands hooking into shocked claws, John coiling around him at the sound of blood hitting the floor. 

He had known, in those sick, silent seconds following, gun smoke still hovering in the air, what had happened. Had stalked around the edges of enough crime scenes and gunshot victims to picture the destruction in his mind. 

Sherlock’s head rocked back, and he opened his eyes to the present. To a small apartment with mismatched furniture, and the faint smell of burning meat. There was a roast in the oven, probably with a blackening crust forming on the outside, and Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care.

The smell of smoke thickened, twisting with the remembered reek of blood and brain matter, and he tilted onto his side. Lying loose and limp across the armchair, Sherlock whimpered, deep in his throat, and clutched at his stomach.

A shrill, ear-piercing noise blared through the apartment as the smoke alarm registered the thickening haze in the contained air. Sherlock ground his palms against his ears to block out the sound. 

“Sherlock?” The voice called out from the bedroom down the hall, followed by hurried footsteps. “Sherlock!” John appeared in the sitting room, wide eyes taking in the hazy kitchen, the smoke drifting in lazy curls from the oven. His gaze fell on Sherlock, curled in a miserable comma shape on the chair, and his face darkened. _“Jesus,_ Sherlock.” John turned off the oven and threw open the kitchen window, turning on the range fan. He silenced the alarm and stepped into the middle of the living room, looking at Sherlock. His mouth was tight, eyes dark behind the smoke drifting past his face. 

“This needs to stop,” he said, and Sherlock turned his face into the arm of the chair, listless. Uncaring. “Sherlock.” John’s hands gripped him by the shoulders, hauling him up until he was on his feet. His legs buckled, lead-heavy, and he slumped in John’s arms. 

“John,” he murmured, voice a broken croak, and John’s hands tightened. 

“Dammit, Sherlock,” John snapped, shaking him, pulling him upright and staring into his face. “Stand up!” Sherlock didn’t, and John’s teeth gleamed, bared in a violent display. “Stand _up!”_ His fingers pressed bruises into the flesh of his biceps, and Sherlock winced, the pain distant.

John dropped him back onto the chair with a disgusted snarl and stalked into the kitchen. He pulled the oven open with too much force, the door making a discordant noise at the aggression. With bare hands, John grabbed the still-hot pan and tossed it and the roast into the trash in the corner of the small, cramped kitchen. He stood there, looking down at the blackened meat. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and Sherlock saw they were red and raw, burns marring the callused skin. 

When John turned back to him, his burnt hand lifted in a furious gesture, and Sherlock was once more wracked by flashbacks. 

John looking at him with a steady face, staring into his eyes, arm locked around Sherlock. Gun still raised. Sherlock’s mouth opening with horror between his teeth, shock in his throat, and John smiling up at him. 

_ “Your fingerprints are on the gun, too,” _ he had said, the words filtering through the discordant ringing in Sherlock’s ears. 

They had run. John had swept Sherlock away, already prepared, a bag with false passports and foreign currency set against the wall. Sherlock didn’t know how John acquired it all, had never asked. But John had been prepared, well before that day, this Sherlock saw as they fled London. 

Germany. Turkey. Nepal. A brief double-back, into Ireland, throwing off the trail. 

Now, here they remained, in a cramped, cheap apartment in some small, backwoods town in the United States. Sherlock’s hair was short, dyed a red-brown, crisp curls atop his head that John insisted on pushing his fingers through whenever they went to bed together. He wore jeans and flannels and felt like a man who had shed his skin. A snake in unassuming clothing. John had bought him contacts, turning his sharp silvery eyes a muddy green.

John took on a seamless American accent. Grew his hair a little longer, dyed it a strawberry blonde, letting the grey peek through at the roots like a man caught at the tail-end of a midlife crisis. He was a surgeon at a veterinary hospital, the job acquired through falsified papers and charming smiles. 

Sherlock sat at home most days, remembering the smell of gun smoke and the sound of ringing in his ears.

“Sherlock,” John snarled, breaking through and tugging Sherlock back to reality. “ _Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”_ John spat the words at him through bared teeth, and Sherlock looked at him with deadened eyes. 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, and Sherlock was no one, now. No longer Sherlock Holmes. Simply some red-haired bloke people called Everett, staring across a too-small flat at a monster who wore John’s face, but who everyone in their new life knew as Daniel. Their marriage papers, legalized and legitimatized in a courthouse, said the same, their contrived signatures declaring them wed as Everett James Morgan and Daniel Edward Morgan. 

“ _Sherlock,”_ John’s repetition was desperate, hard-edged, the shadow of who he had once been bleeding through the words. 

“Don’t you mean ‘Everett’?” Sherlock muttered, getting to his feet. He moved to sweep past John, and was pinned to the wall by a steel grip on his throat.

“What happened to you?” John growled, dragging Sherlock down until he was forced to bend his knees, pushed to eye level by John’s solid strength. “You’ve become this—this _pathetic_ shadow.” John’s teeth flashed, bared, and Sherlock felt only a very distant flicker of fear.

_ “You _ happened to me,” he said, and John’s eyes darkened. His fingers tightened until Sherlock saw spots, then relaxed. The grip on his throat loosened, and Sherlock sucked in air before his mouth was claimed by John’s fierce lips. 

“Don’t be a fucking child, Sherlock,” he ground out against Sherlock’s mouth. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at the words because John was right. He had known—had known all along, and had not struggled. John Watson was a black hole, and Sherlock had walked willingly into the pull of his depthless vortex. 

He had only himself to blame. 

Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders, limp and submissive, and John kissed him in a frenzy. He stripped Sherlock of his clothes and spun him, pressing his front to the wall. Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, and he rested his cheek against cold plaster. John fucked him into the wall, and Sherlock was silent. 

There was ringing in his ears.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

**Two Months Later**

****

Stepping out of the tub in the tiny bathroom, Sherlock ruffled his wet hair, wrapping a towel around his slim waist. He wiped a circle into the fogged mirror and stared at his face, lingering on the dark shadows stamped beneath his eyes. He looked thin, thinner than he had ever been. Dark brown showed at his roots, and Sherlock sighed, resigned to a re-dye to remove the natural colour of his hair. 

Moving through the apartment on bare feet, Sherlock was almost silent. When he slipped into their shared bedroom, he saw John in the corner, hunkered down over something on the floor. He looked furtive. Secretive. Sherlock paused, hesitated, and snuck back out. He locked himself in the bathroom, back pressed to the door. Touching his fingers to his lips, he frowned, mind working furiously. 

A knock on the door made him jump, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from shouting out his surprise.

“Sherlock?” John called through the wood between them. “Are you almost finished?”

“Just—just about done,” Sherlock replied, bending to splash his hand in the undrained water of the tub. “Five minutes.” 

“All right.” John’s footsteps moved away from the door, and Sherlock’s breath left him in a whoosh. Reaching deeper, he pulled the plug, shaking droplets from his hand as the tub drained. He readjusted the towel, quickly dabbed water into his already drying hair, and walked out of the bathroom again. 

John was in the kitchen, downing the last of his mug of coffee. He peered down the hall, watching Sherlock move toward the bedroom.

“Hey,” he said, and Sherlock froze, his body stiff. He forced himself to relax, smoothing his face of anything incriminating. Turning, he pasted a small smile on his lips, watching John move toward him with trepidation.

“Yes?” he replied, but John just reached out to tug a curl, eyes narrowing.

“Time for a re-dye,” he said, carding his fingers through the darkened roots at Sherlock’s crown. 

Relief flooded into Sherlock’s stomach, and he nodded, letting his breath out in a low whoosh. “Yes,” he agreed, swallowing. John’s eyes flickered over the movement at the dip of his throat, fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair.

“Take care of it,” John commanded. “Today.” Sherlock tilted his head in silent submission. John stared at him, blue eyes sharp in the dim hallway. Sherlock watched him with trepidation until John pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, his fingers releasing, hand dropping back to his side. “See you after work,” he said, and Sherlock sighed, nodding again.

“Yes,” he replied. “See you then.”

John shot him another quick look, then turned and strode to the door. He opened it, glanced back at Sherlock, then stepped through. The door closed behind him, the sharp _snick_ of the lock loud in the suddenly silent house.

Sherlock’s breathing quickened, and he stood, frozen, letting seconds pass into minutes, counting beneath his breath. When he reached 100, he came to life, walking into the bedroom. His feet carried him to where he had witnessed John kneeling by the wall, and he dropped down. Palms skating over the floor, heart racing, he ticked his fingertips over the uneven grooves of the hardwood.

His nails caught on an edge, and his breathing stopped. When it resumed, his pulse thudded in his ears, and Sherlock worked his fingers into the groove, prying a board loose. It came up with slick ease as if frequently removed. Setting it aside, he looked into the hollow space beneath. The faint light from the window above him shone on the black metal of an all-too-familiar gun, and his heart sank. 

Reaching out, Sherlock touched the weapon with shaking fingers. The smell of gun smoke and blood filled his nostrils, and he felt a wave of dizziness roll over him, stomach twisted with nausea. Forcing it away, Sherlock curled his hand around the gun and lifted it out. He stared at the black muzzle, into the depthless eye of the barrel. Discharging the clip, he found it empty and set the firearm aside. 

Looking back into the hole, his body went cold, then hot, sweat breaking out on his skin.

Beneath the gun was a small plastic box. It was unfamiliar yet entirely recognizable. 

When Sherlock opened the lid with shaking hands, there was a single scalpel, edged in red.

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, the ending! 
> 
> Sorry that this is kind of open-ended, but I really didn't feel like this was a story that could possibly end with them living happily ever after. Also, kudos to PatPrecieux for guessing part of this ending (the them running away together part). 
> 
> I came up with this ending in a sudden fit of realization, before the alternate ending idea came along. Because I couldn't just spring Major Character Death onto those who had been reading along the whole time (and because I didn't think of it until near the end), I stuck with this ending, and added a secondary ending (followed by a scene that never made it into an earlier part of the story).
> 
> Thank you everyone who followed along on this journey, and to any future readers. Please know that your comments and enjoyment of this story kept me going throughout the dark path this took. I had not expected it to develop the way that it did, and I am still working toward accepting the route this story took. I hope readers find a dark enjoyment out of what I have written and know that my deepest wish was to maintain the underlying inevitability of John and Sherlock's connection. 
> 
> **Heads up! The next chapter is the alternate ending of this fic, and it contains Major Character Death. It is a very brutal chapter with descriptions of gore. Please avoid if you are not comfortable, or if that is not safe for you to read. If you want to read but want a heads up on what happens, feel free to contact me on tumblr (simplyclockwork.tumblr.com), and I can let you know what happens in the chapter, so you can decide whether or not you want to read it.**
> 
> Thank you, everyone!


	26. Nothing But Spilled Blood, Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: This chapter includes Major Character Death and explicit descriptions of death and gore. This is an alternate end to this fic, and is not necessary to read if you do not want to read such things**
> 
> This chapter begins with a recap of the end scene in chapter 24, which precludes this alternate ending.
> 
> After this is a deleted scene unrelated to the alternate ending. It's a scene that didn't make it into the story, but I liked it enough to want to put it in here somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tell me what you want from me? (want from me)  
>  I just want your blood, honey (blood, honey)  
> you know what you are to me? (are to me)  
> nothing but spilled blood, honey (blood honey)_
> 
> _blood honey, blood honey  
>  with you I felt it, this euphoria  
> I saw the peaks of my utopia  
> we talked about a life in Saigon  
> to leave it all and move to the sun_
> 
> _but you broke our code of honour  
>  you set fire to my nirvana  
> now you want me back again  
> but I just wanna get even_
> 
> _**blood honey** \- XOV_

_Sherlock tilted into John, leaning against him, fisting his hands in the front of his shirt. His breathing was loud and heavy, and John breathed him in, inhaling sweat and a faint hint of gun oil, rubbed into Sherlock’s skin._ __

_ “John,” Sherlock murmured. John tightened his grip in his hair. _ __

_ “Yes, baby,” he whispered, nuzzling at Sherlock’s neck with his nose. Sherlock began to relax, body loosening. John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, catching Donovan’s dark-eyed uneasy stare. “Clever boy,” he said, listening to Sherlock’s breathing beginning to even out. John shifted, the muscles in his left arm twisting as it lifted. “Beautiful boy.” Sherlock raised his head, and his eyes flew open.  _

_ He looked down at John, and John looked back.  _ __

_ The gun went off.  _

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Lestrade’s footsteps echoed back at him from the bare, dust-darkened walls of the power station. His heart thundered in his chest, and he dug his hands into tense fists, trying to imbue some feeling of calm confidence into his stride.

But it wouldn’t come, and his chest felt hollow. 

Emerging into a room, the DI found several officers clustered outside an open door. Their faces were grim, backs to the next room. Several looked up with haunted looks, and Lestrade’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding together. 

Dread sank into his body, deep enough to rattle in his bones.

Sally Donovan stood off to the side, a bruise marring her face. Her split lip was clotted with blood, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Every inch of her body language spoke of tension, of absolute shock, and Lestrade swallowed down a bitter taste.

“Sally.” She looked up at his approach. Her eyes were dark, a weird empty stare held in place around swelling, bruised flesh.

“Lestrade.” Her voice broke.

“Are you okay?” The DI stepped forward, squinting at her marred face. Sally looked away, shaking her head.

“It’s a mess in there,” she told him, and his breath caught. Trying once more to force calm into his body, and failing again, Lestrade nodded. 

“The paramedics will be here soon,” he said, waving over a couple officers to help Donovan to the front of the building. “Ah, do they—will they be needed in the—” he gestured helplessly at the next room, at the ominously open door. Sally shook her head, a quick, sharp jerk. 

Lestrade’s stomach clenched.

“Okay,” he replied, and he nodded at the officers to help Donovan. As they passed, his sergeant paused, reaching out to grab his arm.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she told him, and her eyes were pained, sorrow in the corners of her down-turned mouth. “It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. Remember that.” Her head bowed, eyes wet. “We were so wrong. We were _so wrong,_ and he paid for it.” She shook her head, looking at him with unmistakable guilt. “Sherlock paid for it.” 

Lestrade tore his eyes from her anguished face, his own falling into a grim mask. He watched the officers lead her away with gentle words, toward the approaching sound of sirens. Straightening his back, tugging his jacket into order, he walked forward, through the open door.

What he saw made his steps stutter, legs turning loose with shocked regret. 

The first thing Lestrade noticed was the blood. Dark, pooling. Splattered on the floor and the wall beside the door. The broken chair, the bloodied rope. Twisted, still bodies on the ground. 

Dark curls slick and clotted with red, pale skin wet with gore.

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Lestrade moaned, fighting the urge to fall to his knees. He struggled forward, feeling as if he were outside of his body, untethered by the horror before him. He had seen years of violence—all kinds of depravity and death. Crime and murder. 

He knew the image of what he saw before him would remain, burned into his mind for the rest of his life. 

Sherlock lay in a pool of his own blood, limp on a floor dotted with brain matter and skull fragments. His body was curled against a smaller form, one with a single staring blue eye, the other obscured by the path of a bullet. John Watson’s right arm was draped over Sherlock’s twisted waist, the two of them locked in the parody of a lover’s embrace, slick with lifeblood. A black handgun rested near John’s splayed left hand, powder burns dark on his curled fingers. 

Kneeling, Lestrade lifted John’s arm and shoved him away. He briefly wondered if photos had been taken yet for the evidence team and realized he didn’t care. He pushed John Watson away from Sherlock’s still form. Dug his fingers against Sherlock’s neck, searching for a pulse his rational brain said could not possibly be there. 

They would have checked, those first on the scene. Lestrade knew this, knew the protocol. But he searched anyways and curled in on himself when his fingers found nothing but cold, waxy skin. 

His hand came away slick with blood, and he couldn’t know who it belonged to. 

Lestrade sat back on his heels, tilted, and thumped down onto his butt, hands shaking with wild tremours. He stared at the dead men before him and pushed his vibrating fingers into his hair. Blood darkened the silver strands, and he didn’t even notice. 

Footsteps made him look up, and he found Mycroft standing over him. Lestrade stared at him with anguish, but the other man wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on the slender, pale form on the ground, lying in its own blood.

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said, and his voice was a rasping gasp. “Oh, god, Mycroft—I’m so sorry.” 

Mycroft was silent, hands clasped, white-knuckled, around the handle of his umbrella.

“It wasn’t your fault, Gregory,” he replied finally. The words were deadened, devoid of any emotion. “There was nothing you could have done.” Mycroft’s tone made Lestrade feel like he was caving in on himself, something falling away in his chest. 

They remained there, one man sitting on the floor with shaking legs, the other a rigid statue, and held vigil for the men on the floor. 

**Fin.**


	27. I'm a Twisted Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm a man, I'm a twisted fool  
>  my hands are twisted, too  
> five fingers to black hooves_
> 
> _I'm a man, don't spin me a lie  
>  got toes and I can smile  
> I'm crooked but upright_
> 
> _and all I ever want  
>  is just a little love  
> I said in purrs under the palms_
> 
> _and all I ever want is breaking me apart_  
>  I said to the thing that I once was
> 
> _**toes** \- glass animals_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An incomplete scene that never made it into the fic - an alternate scene where Sherlock finally realized who John really was.

A hand drifted over his stomach, rough palm smoothing along the planes of Sherlock’s chest. In his languid, post-orgasm haze, the touches drew fire across his skin. He stretched, letting his leg slip between John’s thighs, and draped an arm over a taut, hard stomach. Leaning in, eyes dropping closed, Sherlock found John’s mouth. Traced over his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. John’s hand moved higher, brushing against collar bones and tracing the hollow of his neck.

When his fingers curled around Sherlock’s throat, other hand coming up to mirror the other, Sherlock’s eyes flashed open. John twisted, pushing Sherlock down onto his back. His knees pressed into Sherlock’s thighs. Elbows pushing flat along the detective’s shoulders, he pinned him against the bed.

Sherlock looked up at John’s face above him, found blue eyes sharp and cold. Fingers tensed on his neck, light pressure on his windpipe. Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“It’s—you’re—” He blinked, trying to swallow past the press of John’s grasp on his neck. He wasn’t choking him yet, not quite, but the weight of his hands was tighter than what Sherlock considered comfortable.

John’s eyes stared into his, unblinking and fixed, and Sherlock knew. Without a doubt, he knew.

“You’re him,” he breathed, voice edged and rasping. “The Grim Reaper.”

The edges of John’s eyes tensed, a minute movement anyone but Sherlock would have missed. Aside from the slight clench, his face remained smooth and blank. His breath slipped out in slow, even puffs, warm on Sherlock’s cheek as his thumb brushed over Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, stroking along the bony rise. It paused there, applying light pressure. With the other hand, John flexed his index and middle fingers over Sherlock’s carotid artery, squeezing.

Sherlock gasped as a wave of dizziness dropped over him. Spots danced in his eyes, and a black wall surged into his vision. He made a quiet choking noise, throat tightening under the compression.

John’s hands relaxed, and air whooshed into Sherlock’s mouth, sucked down by his aching lungs. As he coughed, John stroked his fingers over Sherlock’s throat. Bent and licked a path from the jut of Sherlock’s clavicle to the edge of his jaw. He traced over the hollow at Sherlock’s throat, sucking a red mark into the skin below.

“Is this how—” Sherlock’s words broke off in another ragged cough. John looked down at him, one brow quirked up.

“How I ‘do it’?” he asked, tone low. Amused. “Sometimes.” He splayed a hand over Sherlock’s chest, a possessive light in his eyes. “Sometimes, I do it quick. Other times I… draw it out. Though, I don’t typically wait this long.” His nails dug into Sherlock’s skin, the detective wincing at the sting.

“Are you going to kill me, John?” Sherlock asked, and there was a clear note of interest in his low voice. John tilted his head, brows settling as he fixed the man beneath him with a sharp look.

“Mm.” He drew his nails down Sherlock’s ribcage, dipping a finger into his navel. His other hand still gripped one side of the detective’s neck, but his grasp was loose and light. Sporadic, he squeezed with brief, firm pressure, making Sherlock’s head swim. “Not sure.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hip, pushing him harder against the mattress. “I like you.”

Something hard pressed against Sherlock’s thigh. Looking down, he saw John’s erection, standing tall where it jutted from its nest of light, curled hair. Sherlock’s own cock twitched, half-hard where it rested under the curve of John’s groin. John, noting the direction of Sherlock’s gaze, looked down as well. His lips twitched.

“Seems you like me, too.” He tilted down, lowering himself until they were chest to chest, his knees still pressed into Sherlock’s thighs as he bent forward on folded legs. “Get turned on by serial killers often?” John murmured, touching the tips of his fingers into the dip where Sherlock’s neck met his collar bones.

“Only the intelligent ones,” Sherlock quipped, eyes dropping to John’s mouth, hovering just above his own.

John’s lips twitched again, a small smirk pulling up one side. “And am I…” he dipped his head, brushing over Sherlock’s parted lips for the briefest of seconds. His breath tickled over Sherlock’s face, and he could taste John on his tongue. “…one such intelligent serial killer?” His chin angled down, their mouths almost meeting. His elbows slid from Sherlock’s shoulders, releasing his upper body.

“No,” Sherlock breathed. His arm raised, hand drifting over the curve of John’s backside—over the rough trail of his vertebrae until his fingers tangled in John’s mussed hair. “You’re _breathtaking.”_ He pulled John’s head down, their lips meeting with slow, sensuous pressure. John’s hand tightened minutely on his neck, then slid up Sherlock’s face. Grabbing a handful of curls, he wrenched Sherlock’s head back, following with teeth and tongue. His legs straightened, one knee dropping between Sherlock’s thighs. Reaching between them, he gripped Sherlock’s cock. Stroking up, hand twisting with firm, sleek movements, John rutted against the man beneath him.

Sherlock pressed his tongue past John’s parted lips, moaned into John’s hot mouth. John jerked Sherlock’s head back again. Bending, he began sucking a trail of bruises over the curve of his neck. Breath stuttering out in hard gasps, Sherlock raised his hips, grinding into John’s solid body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks, that's the end! Thank you again for all the comments and for joining me on the journey of this fic! You can find me on [tumblr](https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com/) \- come say hi anytime! I take writing prompts as well, but it might be a bit before I can fill them. 
> 
> See you in a bit, as I am off to work on two awesome Fandom Trumps Hate fics for two wonderful people. Stay tuned! 
> 
> \- Paige

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind, John is a serial killer and Sherlock is a detective. John must hide from Sherlock in plain sight. Obviously, he is not going to act like a psycho killer to Sherlock's face. 
> 
> Be patient, and stop asking me if John is going to be darker/telling me that Sherlock is 'way sexier'. The story is what it is.


End file.
